


Come Hell or Full Circle

by writworm42



Series: Ease My Mind [4]
Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Dom/sub, F/F, Fluff, Kink, More tags to be added, Professional Dominatrix, Sex Work, Slow Burn, ease my mind series, too many feelings, verbal humiliation during kink scenes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2020-12-23 16:22:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21084290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writworm42/pseuds/writworm42
Summary: In the aftermath of Isabela's confession, she tries to pick up the pieces and bring Brooke back to her.





	1. Make Me Feel Again

**Author's Note:**

> Please note, folks: I'm using Isabela to mean Vanessa's personal self, and Vanessa to mean her work self.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isabela tries her best to cope with the aftermath of Brooke's rejection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally, finally here, y'all. I'm really proud of this and strangely attached to it, so I really hope you all enjoy it, too. 
> 
> Thank you Holtzmanns for beta-ing, brainstorming with me, and cheering me on. And thank you, all of you, for encouraging me, giving me feedback, and making me feel so appreciated. The comments and love I've received from you all means so, so much to me, so thank you from the bottom of my heart.
> 
> Title from Molecules by Hayley Kiyoko.

“It’s okay, baby. It’s okay.” Isabela burrows her face further into A’keria’s shoulder, sniffling as the other woman continues to whisper comforts to her, words that keep rhythm with the hand stroking comfortingly through her hair. A’keria’s shoulder is cold and damp by now, Isabela’s tears having soaked fully into her friend’s shirt. She should stop crying, she knows she should. She should get up, get out her laptop, and start looking for the next flight home.

But she doesn’t. She can’t. 

Not when Brooke is gone. 

“I shoulda never took this job.” She sobs, her whole body shaking. “I shoulda known it would end badly.”

“No, baby, you couldn’t have. It was just another job, you took it like anyone else would’ve. It’s okay. It’s not your fault.” A’keria’s voice is hollow, and Isabela knows the words are empty; even if they weren’t, they’d be little consolation at the moment. It is her fault, it  _ is,  _ because she didn’t have to do what she did. She didn’t have to stop Brooke. She didn’t need to kiss her. She didn’t need to tell her her real name. She didn’t have to tell Brooke her she loved her.

Christ,  _ why  _ did she tell Brooke she loved her?

But even as her sobs become dry, all of her tears spent, one question remains in her mind.

Why did Brooke leave?

She didn’t have to stop Brooke, but Brooke didn’t have to let herself be stopped. She didn’t have to kiss Brooke, but Brooke didn’t have to kiss back. She didn’t need to tell Brooke her real name, but Brooke didn’t have to leave with no other word or explanation.

Wasn’t Vanessa--wasn’t  _ Isabela _ \--worth more to her than that?

“I shoulda told her no.” She whispers the words against A’keria’s shoulder, sniffling a little. “I shoulda kept my mouth shut.”

A’keria doesn’t answer this time--she probably can’t. After all, she doesn’t know what happened; doesn’t know that Isabela stopped Brooke, doesn’t know the things she did or said. She only knows that Brooke is gone and Isabela is broken. In the back of her mind, Isabela knows she should explain, that A’keria will eventually wrestle it out of her anyway. But right now, she can’t even think of how to start that conversation.

All she can think of, all she can say, is that she should’ve told Brooke no, should’ve kept her mouth shut.

If she had, then Brooke wouldn’t have stopped, wouldn’t have kissed her, wouldn’t have run away. 

If she had, then Brooke never would have left. 

_ Scarlet casually slides a dossier across the table to Vanessa, barely looking up from her phone. _

_ “New client. Background check’s all done, but it’s up to you if you want to take her.” _

_ Vanessa perks up at that; most of the clients she works with are cis men, and anyone outside that classification is rare, maybe even something she’ll never encounter again. It doesn’t necessarily matter, not in the sense that she has a preference like some of the other dommes do, but she always takes a special interest in those cases. It’s refreshing, and challenging, a little more engaging than using the same old names on the same old dudes with all of the same old kinks.  _

_ So sue her for not immediately closing the file again when she opens it and begins to read the information provided. _

_ “Brooke Lynn Hytes, 33 years old. Entrepreneur/CEO. Requests booking Ms Vanessa Vanjie for one-hour session involving humiliation and impact-play. Seeking full service. Submissive. No previous experience with any BDSM-related activities.” _

_ That’s fine; a lot of women have never worked with a domme before, or have been too afraid to ask their partners to explore kink at all with them. And most of her clients are business-people. What catches Vanessa’s attention—what makes her heart stop—is what she sees when she turns the page. _

_ A picture of a woman, blonde, green-eyed, professional-looking, if not a little cold. Definitely in her thirties, but could pass for younger. Sharp features, incredibly white smile despite a somehow endearing unevenness in her front teeth.  _

_ She’s seen her before. She knows it.  _

_ It hits her suddenly, almost like a train. It’s been almost nine years, but the memory is still clear when it comes to her. _

_ Alexis’ friend, the one Alexis used to rant about beating her out in their MBA exams or internship opportunities. The one who got her name changed and threw a party to celebrate, a party Isabela went to. _

_ Well, seems like Vanessa’s gotten her wish--things certainly are about to get interesting. _

Isabela spends the rest of the day in bed. It’s not what A’keria wants her to do, she can hear that in the skeptical drawl of her friend’s voice when she acquiesces and agrees to get breakfast for her alone, but it’s what she needs, and she’s grateful that A’keria lets her do it. 

Somehow, her single in Brooke’s room felt infinitely more comfortable than A’keria’s queen-sized bed, the mattress too wide and sheets too cold for her to feel at rest. She stays rooted to the spot as she lays there, afraid to toss and turn because she knows that nothing awaits for her on the other side of the bed other than blank space and empty air. She doesn’t sleep, either, partially because she knows A’keria will be back soon, but mostly because even as she cocoons herself tightly in A’keria’s sheets, she feels completely exposed and alone. 

It’s unfair. It’s completely, absolutely unfair, but she can’t bring herself to be angry. 

_ God,  _ she wishes she could be angry.

Brooke could have said something, anything. At least have  _ refused _ Isabela, told her why. Not kissed her like that, left every part of Isabela’s skin buzzing with the memory of where she had touched like that, made her realize how  _ right _ it had felt like that. Made her see how sincere Brooke was, how she always wore her heart on her sleeve, how what happened between them was no exception to that. How was she supposed to think anything other than that Brooke felt the same way?

Then again, A’keria had always said that Isabela wasn’t a good judge of character. Too forgiving, too open, too extroverted.

Too much.

She was always too much. 

She wipes her eyes and rolls over in A’keria’s bed, sniffling a little, but when she looks at the back of her palm, there are no tears streaked across her skin. 

“Bitch even took all my tears.” Isabela mutters to herself with a hollow laugh. 

_ Trade’s all the same.  _ A’keria’s voice rang in her mind, her stomach churning as a thought crept into her mind.

What if what Isabela had picked up on wasn’t love or affection at all?

What if it was just curiosity, just a way to take a dominatrix to bed, to grab the parts of herself that she never showed her clients? A way to bite through Vanessa’s skin and gobble Isabela up, then spit her out and put the chewed up remains--of Vanessa, of Isabela, of whatever taste she decided bore more impact--on display for others to see,  _ look at me, look at me, look at the code I cracked? _

No. Even as she thought it, Vanessa knew it wasn’t true--it was too easy, too convenient. It wasn’t Brooke. It just wasn’t.

Brooke was an unanswered question, and she always would be. 

_ Isabela tosses and turns that night, agonizing over whether to take on Brooke. Brooke’s file still lays open on her kitchen table, all of her information poured over once, twice, three or four times.  _

_ But Isabela still can’t make a decision. _

_ She’s always had a good memory—it’s one of her strengths, something that keeps the good clients coming and helps her remember which of the bad ones she should have Silky block at the door. Helps her make anyone feel seen for what they are, whether that’s a good or bad thing. It’s not just at work, either—Isabela’s mind is a constantly-expanding scrapbook of faces, words, and events, everything put in its proper place for her to revisit at will, or to pop out and surprise her like a book falling open off a shelf. _

_ The book has been popping open a lot, lately. _

_ It’s not uncommon for people to request Vanessa; that’s why the website is built the way it is, so that clients can rifle through the staff bios and pick someone they feel compatible with. Usually, she doesn’t think anything of it—it doesn’t really matter why someone picked her, whether it was her appearance or experience level or number or kinks that align with the clients’. All that really matters is the money, and that Vanessa can work with them.  _

_ But this is different—as far back as she can remember, she doesn’t think she’s  _ ever  _ been in this situation. She has to wonder why she’s even in it now. _

_ Did Brooke remember her, too? Is that why she picked her, because she was a familiar face? Or was it all coincidence? _

_ Nine years. Almost a decade. It’s a long time to remember, and certainly enough time to forget. When she met Brooke, she barely spoke to her—only that she was happy, and in her element, and clearly loved.  _

_ She wonders if time has changed anything. _

_ She wonders if Alexis would remember Brooke. _

_ Unfortunately, confidentiality means she can’t ask. Which means that if she really wants to figure it out, she’ll have to find out for herself. _

_ She gets out of bed before she can second-guess her decision, grabs her burner phone and shoots an email to Scarlet. _

_ As she climbs back to bed, puts the scrapbook back on its shelf, one more memory slips out of its folds and into the front of her mind. _

_ “It’s nice to meet you, Isabela.”  _

_ Maybe Brooke remembers her, remembers her face, her voice, how she behaved on that night so long ago. Or maybe she doesn’t, nine years of faces, voices, and behaviours of countless people obscuring Isabela in a sea of memories. _

_ Either way, Isabela hopes that Brooke doesn’t remember her name. _

Isabela and A’keria eat cookies for breakfast, washed down with a mickey of vodka passed between the two of them, neither of them commenting on how fast it goes. 

It’s not the time for healthy living, and even the emptiness of having nothing but sugar and alcohol in Isabela’s body is better than Brooke’s memory right now. 

“We got two options.” A’keria finally breaks their silence, her voice confident and no-nonsense in a way Isabela wishes she could possess at the moment. “Sightsee and have a nice vacation, or leave right away.”

Isabela takes another swig of vodka and crunches down on the last cookie in the box. It’s a catch-22; either Isabela stays in a city that bares Brooke’s memory at every turn, or she goes home and faces life without Brooke without a moment to breathe. Neither are particularly appealing choices, but then again, what is at the moment? She couldn’t even stay here in the hotel—it’s too risky, too much of a chance that someone will recognize her, ask where Brooke is, accidentally make her cry.

“What d’you wanna do?” She passes the question back to A’keria, hoping that the other woman will take the hint and make the decision herself. Blessedly, A’keria does, and so she shrugs, thinking for a moment before she decides that neither option is a good idea.

“You know that spa we always talkin’ about going to? The one about an hour out from the city, with the hot springs and the weekend packages?” The look A’keria gives Isabela is conspiratorial, her smile sly and almost devilish. “How ‘bout we take a little vacation for ourselves?”

The question is harder to answer than Isabela thought it would be;  _ should _ she go? Right now, there’s a very large sum of money sitting in her bank account, and even though most of it is just money, a lot of it is money she got from Brooke. It’s overly proud and a ridiculous, she knows, but the thought of Brooke’s money in her account makes every other dollar seem contaminated. She can’t decide what’s worse--letting Brooke fund a spa day, or robbing herself of one purely out of pride. 

A’keria sees it another way, and has Isabela call the bank and place Brooke’s money into her retirement fund so that she won’t even have to dream of spending it until she’s too old to remember how she earned it. And then within another hour of calls and arguments and frenzied online searches, everything’s set--they’ll leave in the morning, stop briefly at A’keria’s house to grab a few things, then set off for the spa to have a weekend of forgetting.

Isabela’s not quite sure she wants to forget yet, but she doesn’t say anything to A’keria about that.

Some things are better kept to herself for now, until she’s ready to let them go. 

That night, she dreams about seaweed scrubs and Swedish massages and Brooke’s hands intertwined with her own, their fingers submerged under hot spring water and the smell of Brooke’s scent-free body wash enveloping Isabela like birdsong and steam. 

_ When Vanessa greets Brooke at the door, she looks nervous. It’s sort of disorienting--from the picture in Brooke’s file, Vanessa had been expecting the woman to come in confident, business-like, knowing exactly what she wants and how to get it. But this Brooke… This is different.  _

_ This Brooke is anxious, unsure, a little meek. Like she doesn’t know what to expect and is equal parts terrified as she is excited to find out. _

_ Had she been like this when they met nine years ago? _

_ Maybe Vanessa’s memory isn’t as good as she thought. _

_ They stand in the doorway for a few minutes, Brooke shifting on her feet and looking Vanessa up and down, when something hits Vanessa, a sudden realization making Brooke’s demeanor make sense. _

_ She’s surprised. _

_ Vanessa smiles, her heart softening a little. _

_ “There’s gonna be plenty of time for leather and latex, Mary. Today’s just a consultation, you know, an interview so I can make sure your expectations match mine and we know each other well enough to make sure your session is as good as it can be. If we wanna schedule it after.” Vanessa throws in a little smirk, just to pepper in a little dominatrix energy, give Brooke a bit of what she’s expecting. It works, and Brooke relaxes. _

_ “Oh, um, I have your fee--” _

_ It’s not the first time someone’s offered to pay her up front--in fact, it kind of matches Brooke’s current presentation, the shy, nervous first-timer, as opposed to the businesswoman Vanessa was rapidly realizing Brooke didn’t fit the archetype of. Those types always haggled, always tried to wait until the last minute to fork over Vanessa’s money, as if they were hoping she’d forget what they owed her. Always looked down on her because of what she does, thinking that she does it because she’s too stupid to do anything else. It’s a nasty shock, one she enjoys bringing on them, but she’s even more pleased that she doesn’t have to do it here. There’s just something about Brooke, something about how she follows Vanessa quickly into the consultation room, how she relaxes and becomes more in her element when she realizes it’s any other office, that’s endearing. Makes Vanessa feel almost protective. _

_ “Don't worry about it, you can hand it to me at the end of the consultation." She sits down at the desk, now finally level with the tall woman across from her, and smiles.  _

_ "Alright, I know your file says you have zero BDSM experience, so just double-checking... What are you expecting from a session with me? Like, what’s your goal?” _

_ “Stress relief.” Brooke blushes, as if the answer is new, like it’s something Vanessa hasn’t heard a thousand times before.  _

_ “Okay, and what does that look like to you?” This is the key question for Vanessa--the one that really tells her if she can trust a prospective client. If they’re looking for a nurturer--that’s more A’keria’s thing--or a mother figure, or worse, some kind of therapist. She may be a healer of sorts, sometimes, but she’s not going to zap away anyone’s problems, and she needs to make sure Brooke knows that. _

_ “Catharsis, I guess.” Brooke shrugs. “Like this… Well, it’s kind of embarrassing.” _

_ Oh, fuck. Vanessa’s heart speeds up a little. This is the part that usually goes wrong--the part where they unload their fantasies, where Vanessa has to cut them off and show them the door before they even get to explaining their superiority complex.  _

_ Goddamnit. _

_ “There’s this cartoon on Netflix where this businesswoman lets out all her stress through heavy-metal karaoke. My coworker Yvie told me to watch it. I wanted something like that, only… I don’t like being that aggressive, I guess. So then she told me about this place, and about how good it is at… At providing that kind of thing. The catharsis.” _

_ Vanessa can’t help it; she giggles a little, relief smothering the dread that had knocked the air out of her lungs only moments ago. This woman--this big, bad businesswoman that Vanessa had been preparing to meet--was trying to find stress relief based on a cartoon. _

_ If it were anyone else, Vanessa would probably have found it a bit weird, but somehow, on Brooke, it’s endearing. _

_ “I want that kind of like. Calming down.” Brooke continued, giggling a little despite herself, too. “Yvie said that submission might help me do that. Forget my worries for a bit, give up control, get everything out. Catharsis, but like… Settling, instead of lashing out.” _

_ “I get it.” Vanessa nods. _

_ But then the question pops into her head--why did Brooke choose  _ her _ ? Did Brooke know her? Remember her? From the way she stares almost blankly at Vanessa, like it’s their first time meeting, it’s possible she doesn’t. _

_ But then again, was this anxious, shy, kind of nerdy woman the type to settle so easily around new people? _

_ She decides to go for it, to settle the matter once and for all. _

_ “So, one more question before we get down to the nitty-gritty about rules and session content…” She stops, suddenly realizing the flaw in her plan. _

_ If Brooke  _ doesn’t _ remember her, then she doesn’t necessarily want her to. No, she’d better be subtle then. _

_ “Why did you pick me?” She settles on the question, hoping it’s not evident to Brooke how it comes out all in one breath.  _

_ Brooke shrugs, her eyes finally meeting Vanessa’s for the first time since she’s stepped into the building.  _

_ “You have kind eyes.” _

Over the course of the weekend, amid all the lunches and pedicures and dead sea salt baths, Isabela almost forgets all about the conference, all about Brooke.

Almost.

After all, Saturday and Sunday only make up forty-eight hours, and on Monday, she’ll have to go back to work.

She tries not to think about that too much. 

Still, a part of Isabela can’t help but wonder what Brooke would think about the sparkly black nail polish that she picks from the shelf, when she and A’keria get manicures the day before they leave. 

_ The next time Vanessa and Brooke meet, Brooke is in pretty much the same outfit as when she’d had her consultation—white shirt, black pencil skirt, black high heels. Vanessa smiles. _

_ She’s going to have fun ruining this pristine image, now that she knows what’s underneath. _

_ And from the looks of it, Brooke is just as eager to come undone.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The cartoon mentioned in this chapter is called Aggretsuko and can be found on Netflix!


	2. Freedom is the strength to make you right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter, Isabela tried to pick the pieces up after Brooke left, and reflected on when she first met Brooke.
> 
> This chapter, Isabela tries to keep her work and personal lives separate as she tries to leave Brooke behind, and reflects on how Vanessa came to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry it took so long to write this chapter, it got me thoroughly up in my feelings every time I tried to write it lmao rip
> 
> Thank you thank you thank you to Holtzmanns for being my #1 binch and beta-ing and cheerleading. You're the best <3
> 
> Title from Mother from Carole & Tuesday.

There’s something comforting about walking back into the house on Monday, knocking on Scarlet’s door to let her know she’s come in. Scarlet doesn’t ask about the trip--A’keria must have warned the others ahead of time about what had happened. Normally, Isabela would have scolded A’keria for meddling, but in this case, she’s grateful.

In a weird sort of way, the house has become a home to her. It’s one of the only places that’s always consistent in her life, that always has the same people, same art, same tools available in the same room. No matter what happens to Isabela--where she moves, what new clients come onto her caseload, who she dates or who she drops--she always has her room to go back to and her friends to talk to. It’s nice, even now; no matter how much this room reminds her of Brooke, it’s also a place where she gets to turn her mind off, gets to slip into another persona, be Vanessa for as long as she wants. 

So what if she feels numb inside today? So what if her heart feels light-- _ too  _ light, too empty--when she unlocks the door and steps inside her usual room? So what if when she flicks the light on, the gray walls seem harsh and the floors, now exposed without their usual mats, seem unstable? 

It’s still Vanessa’s room. It’s still Vanessa’s place. Still her home. 

She closes the door behind her, grabs her trunk of toys, and begins to get ready for her first client of the day. 

_ The first girlfriend Isabela has is someone that she meets in a college church group. Cheryl is nothing one would expect from someone who goes to Bible studies and youth events three times a week--she snorts when the priest accidentally makes a double-entendre, and laughs too loud at jokes that no one’s made, and Isabela swears that every time Cheryl leaves early for ‘class,’ she can smell cigarette smoke in the air when leaving the chaplaincy building fifteen minutes later.  _

_ She supposes she’s no angel either--she swears and drinks and parties just like everyone else in her dorm, and she certainly isn’t a preserved little virgin like she knows the priest thinks everyone in the room is. Still, there’s something about Cheryl that she admires--maybe it’s because even though she doesn’t fit in, she  _ does _ , without even trying. It doesn’t matter to anyone that Cheryl accidentally yells out a loud “FUCK!” when she drops her Bible on her foot one evening. No one says anything about her smoking. When she laughs a little too loudly, everyone else starts to laugh, too.  _

_ Cheryl just  _ is _ , and that makes her beloved.  _

_ So when Cheryl chooses her--when Cheryl tells her she really likes her, pulls her in for a kiss in the chaplaincy bathroom, asks if she wants to hang out somewhere other than a lowkey church--Isabela is overjoyed. _

_ Not just because Cheryl has chosen her, but because ever since their first Bible study meeting together, she has chosen Cheryl, too.  _

Isabela’s been seeing Brooke all week, and it has to stop. 

Not the real, physical Brooke--Isabela doubts that Brooke would want that, even though a part of her still does, still wants to go to her and kiss her and beg her not to run away again. But she sees Brooke constantly, in her dreams, her thoughts, even her work.

She wakes up with a jolt every night and realizes it’s 3 AM and the feeling of Brooke’s lips on hers had been nothing but an illusion, no matter how real it felt. 

She goes into the supermarket and stares at a bin of watermelons just a little too long, remembering how Brooke loved the fruit so much that she would even dip biscuits into the leftover juice on her plate at breakfast.

She kicks a female client to the ground and puts her foot on her chest, and suddenly, the woman has Brooke’s face. 

“You okay?” A’keria asks after another rough day, another day when Vanessa sees Brooke’s ghost one too many times. 

“No.” Vanessa grabs a mug from the house’s kitchen cupboard, pops open the tea jar and grabs a packet of Lipton green. “But that ain’t news anymore, right?”

“Yeah.” A’keria sighs, watching Vanessa slam down on the kettle’s on switch just a little too hard, a little too tensely.

“I think I’mma let the others know it’s okay to talk to me about it.” Vanessa doesn’t look at A’keria, only keeps her eyes on the kettle, watching condensation form on the spout’s lip as the water boils. “Maybe it’ll help.”

“Yeah.”

It’s a task that proves as difficult as she thought it would be, but thankfully, word travels fast around the place, so all Vanessa has to do is ask Nana Shuga, one of the other dommes who’s older and generally takes care of the ageplay crowd, for advice, and soon, everyone is offering some. 

“You need some catharsis—wanna do a scene with me?”

“Best way to get over someone is to get under someone new!”

“Maybe you should talk to someone… You don’t have to have a mental illness to talk to a therapist, you know.”

She files every idea away faithfully, just hoping that one will work. 

_ Isabela is at the end of her second year when she and Cheryl get jobs at the Griffin-Gracey Centre for Sexual Health. It’s Isabela’s idea—the pay is good, and both of them are passionate about sexual health and consent, quickly getting a reputation in their friend group for being the best source of condoms, lube, and communication advice that campus had to offer. It’s a weird thing to be known for, but hey, if they’re going to embrace that role, why not put it on their resumes? _

_The work is much like they both expect--in fact, it’s not that different from what they’re already doing. Open up, restock the shelves, write some handouts, counsel some walk-ins. Restock the shelves, file some referrals, close the office. Repeat, repeat, repeat. The only thing that’s new is the information--once Isabela starts working at the centre, she realizes just how little_ _she knows about sex. _

_ She didn’t know about point-of-care versus blood tests for HIV. She didn’t know that pelvic physio was a thing, or that it could be incredibly helpful for vaginismus and vulvodynia, post-pregnancy pelvic floor issues, or incontinence. She didn’t know about the intersections of sex and various disabilities, all the alternate positions and sexual aids and ways that you could facilitate comfort with body image and sexuality while struggling with mental health issues.  _

_ But it’s never a problem--one or more of her coworkers always has knowledge on the topics that they’re willing to share, and there are countless pamphlets and booklets to flip through for reference if she doesn’t have the chance to ask. _

_ It’s through one of those pamphlets that Isabela starts to learn about the ins-and-outs--the real facts, not the sensationalistic myths--about BDSM. _

_ She’s alone in the office on a Tuesday afternoon and it’s completely dead, not even a single condom-seeker wandering in to provide some sign of life. She’s finished the chores in the office, and even the computer is yielding little entertainment that day, as she can’t find any kinds of articles, pictures, or videos to upload onto the centre’s social media accounts. She’s bored out of her mind, and has to do  _ something _ , so she does the best thing she can think of. _

_ She picks up one of their newest pamphlets--or booklets, really, given the size--and starts to read. _

_ The booklet is thick, glossy, printed in large font and possessing an outside cover that’s completely blank save for the title and the name of the organisation it’s written by. _

SAFE, SANE, AND CONSENSUAL,  _ it reads,  _ A BEGINNER’S GUIDE TO MYTHS AND FACTS ABOUT KINK. 

_ Without thinking twice, Isabela flips it open and begins to read. The booklet covers everything from consent to negotiation to safewords, from titles and dynamics to safe basic rope ties. With every page, there’s a new idea that settles into Isabela’s mind, and with each of those ideas comes a new image. _

_ It would be interesting to call Cheryl mommy, maybe. _

_ It would also be interesting to see Cheryl’s ass get red under Isabela’s hand.  _

_ It would  _ definitely _ be interesting to see what it feels like to have her hands tied behind her back while she gets fucked from behind and told to beg for permission before she comes.  _

_ The back of the booklet contains tips for starting a conversation with your partner about trying kink, tips she pours over and makes meticulous notes about in her phone, just to make sure she doesn’t forget anything. When her shift is over, she texts Cheryl to ask if she wants to come over, and slips the booklet into her backpack while her heart does somersaults in her chest.  _

“So, which of those suggestions did you try?” Isabela’s new therapist leans back in her chair, smiling encouragingly.

“This one.” Isabela shrugs, casting what must be her fiftieth look around the office since her sessions with Courtney have begun. It’s been three weeks now, but she still can’t she’s here. Finding a kink- and sex worker-positive therapist hadn’t been easy, and if it hadn’t been for the ones at Planned Parenthood, she probably never would have come across Courtney, whose walls boasted degrees and certificates the likes of which Isabela had never seen before. 

Courtney Act, Bachelor’s of Social Work. Courtney Act, Master’s of Social Work. Courtney Act, Master’s of Sex and Family Therapy. Registered Psychotherapist designation. Couple’s therapist course certificate. Certificate of excellence, certificate of excellence, therapist of the year, all in the name of Courtney Act. 

And then there are the most important decorations of all--an LGBT safe space poster, a kink positivity poster, and a sex workers’ rights poster, all letting Isabela know that she’s safe here, safe to talk and grow and heal as long as she’s within these four walls. 

“So no hookups, no cathartic scenes, no retail therapy or anything?” Courtney’s voice is neutral, like she’s just checking, and Isabela is glad there’s no tone of judgment in her voice. She shakes her head.

“I tried my best with that shit, but I just couldn’t do it. It felt too weird. Too unlike me, you know what I’m saying?”

Courtney nods, and even though she’s only known Isabela for a fraction of the time anyone else in her life has, it somehow feels just as sincere.

“It’s not that I don’t want to get over Brooke… I do, I really do. But I guess I wanna do it on my own terms, only I’m not sure how.” 

“Maybe it’s because you haven’t given yourself time or space to figure it out yet.” Courtney leans forward again, pausing for Isabela to think about the statement. She weighs it in her mind for a moment, turning the suggestion over, before giving Courtney a quizzical look.

“It’s been, like, five weeks.” Vanessa frowns, “And it ain’t like I’m stalkin’ her. How much more time and space can I give myself, Mary?”

Courtney’s smile doesn’t break, only softens a little. “Let me ask you, Isabela, do you still have Brooke’s number in your phone? Do you still have your last text thread with her?”

“Yeah.” Of course Isabela does--why does it matter?

“Do you look at those texts often? Or replay them in your mind?”

Isabela doesn’t answer, but Courtney doesn’t let up.

“Do you think often about Brooke and let yourself replay memories of her in your mind? Do you still have those knee mats out, or did you put them back in the dungeon’s storage closet?”

Yes, yes, and no. Isabela bites her lip, feeling her head spin. It doesn’t matter, it  _ shouldn’t  _ matter, what’s the big deal? They’re just texts, just fantasies, just mats--

“You seem a little tense, Isabela. Why is that?”

“‘Cause I don’t see the problem, is why.” Isabela snaps, crossing her arms. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with any of that.”

“I didn’t say anything was wrong.” Courtney shakes her head, her voice gentle, “You’re right, there’s nothing  _ wrong _ with any of that. There’s nothing wrong with you at all. I want you to put that word out of your head, in fact.

“The reason I’m asking is, I think that these are all ways of hanging on to Brooke. And I believe that unless you get rid of those things that let you hang on--no matter how small or subtle--you’re effectively still with her on some level. Which means that no matter how much time passes, you haven’t given yourself time specifically for moving on. And no matter how much you avoid her physically, emotionally, you’re still with her.” 

“Oh.” Isabela’s defensiveness dries up in a moment, leaving her feeling hollow.

_ No matter how much you avoid her, you’re still with her. _

As much as she doesn’t want to admit it, Courtney is right. And as much as she doesn’t want to follow it, she realizes suddenly what she’s going to have to do.

“You want me to get rid of all reminders of Brooke, do that mindfulness from last week whenever I think about her, an’ give myself time and space without her in any part of my life or mind, right?”

“I don’t want you to,” Courtney shakes her head again, and Isabela thinks she might snap if she sees the gesture again. “It’s up to you what you do. I think it’s a good idea, but if it’s not what you want, then you don’t have to do it. I don’t have to want it--You do. And it can’t be my directions--it has to be your intention and your plan.”

“Right.” Isabela sighs, knowing Courtney is right but resenting it nonetheless. It would be so much easier to just go through the motions, to just get directions and follow them to the letter. But that isn’t how change works, she knows that.

Still, it’s so much harder to force yourself to do things when the only person to disappoint is yourself. 

_ Cheryl and Isabela split in their third year. They stay on good terms, but at some point, Cheryl’s shifts at the centre suddenly stop overlapping with Isabela’s, and then she’s gone, letting Isabela know that she’s had to quit to focus on school. Isabela’s not sure that’s true, but it’s not her concern any more, so she lets it happen and continues her year, occasionally texting Cheryl, occasionally getting a text back. _

_ It’s only after the texts seem to come to a halt that Isabela meets Millie.  _

_ Millie is nothing less the antithesis of Cheryl; quiet and reserved, she blushes when Isabela greets her in the morning and is barely audible when she says good-bye at the end of their shifts. It’s almost difficult to believe that someone like Millie would be attracted to a sexual education centre, but if there’s one thing working at Griffin-Gracey has taught Isabela, it’s that sometimes, the meekest people make the best employees. Millie listens, takes on the clients who are most nervous, most embarrassed to walk into the office. She gives quiet and measured advice, and knows every book and pamphlet and referral option within a ten-mile radius of the centre.  _

_ But perhaps the most interesting detail about her is how her eyes light up when she talks about anything to do with kink. _

_ Millie is pretty, and tall, and blonde--exactly Isabela’s type. And if Isabela’s hunch is right, then perhaps they’re as compatible as she starts to hope. _

_ “You stare a lot.” Millie blurts out one evening in Isabela’s fourth year as they’re walking to the subway together, huddling close together to protect themselves against the bite of the frigid early-December air. As if she’s just realized what she said, she blushes, the redness of her cheeks so fierce Isabela can swear she can feel the heat radiating off of them and spreading onto her own. _

_ But maybe that’s just because she’s blushing, too. _

_ “Are you single?” _

_ Isabela looks up and nods quickly. Millie smiles. _

_ “You’re a switch, right?” it’s almost an entire new woman is standing in front of Isabela, one that’s daring and coy, but it’s Millie, as unbelievable as it is, it’s still Millie, who’s still blushing even as she slides into her element. “I’m not looking for a girlfriend right now, but I’m not gonna say no to a play partner, if…” _

_ “Let’s talk about it over coffee.” Isabela suggests, and Millie nods, smiling widely as they reach the station, parting to leave for different trains in opposite directions.  _

_ Isabela tries things with Millie that she’d never even thought of before. It’s an entirely new kind of humbling, almost similar to the one she felt when she first started at Griffin-Gracey; with Cheryl, after they’d reached the end of what they could think to explore, Isabela had thought that she knew everything there was to know about BDSM. But then Millie takes her on an excursion to a shibari class, and suddenly, basic ties seem like child’s play. When Millie asks if they can buy a ring gag or a spider gag, Isabela’s world is blown open by the sight of Millie drooling onto her own chest more than any ball gag could ever make her. And when she tries latex on for the first time--well, she’d known about it before, but had never imagined it would feel so  _ good _ on her skin, would make her feel sexier than she ever thought possible.  _

_ The more she doms, the more she loves it, and the more she discovers, the more she wants to explore. And sure, they stay professional acquaintances outside of the bedroom, and they never hold hands, or even kiss apart from on the cheek as a comforting gesture at the end of scenes, but somehow, Isabela feels more fulfilled than she ever has before.  _

_ “You could do this professionally, you know.” Millie jokes one night after a scene, while they’re holding each other and relaxing, coming back into themselves from their places under a pile of blankets in Millie’s bed. “You’re that good.” _

_ “Yeah, right.” Isabela rolls her eyes, and Millie laughs. Somehow, though, the suggestion sticks in her mind for a while, before winter turns to spring and final exams sweep Isabela’s thoughts away from sex, her future, or anything to do with how Millie no longer stammers or blushes when she accidentally looks a coworker in the eye. _

She can’t do it.

She stares down at the phone in her hand, _ her  _ phone, although suddenly in this moment, it doesn’t feel that way. It feels heavier, yet somehow lighter—too big to fit in her hand, yet so small that it could fall through her fingers.

Almost like it’s not real.

The screen blinks blue and white, the background of the burner phone app Vanessa uses for her clients. There’s tens of names there right now—many of them old clients, God, she’s really got to clean her contacts out—but all seem to blur over, save for one.

**BL HYTES**

She can do this; she  _ has  _ to do it. She’s put it off for four days already, and she’s seeing Courtney in another three. She has to have made some progress by then, otherwise, what will she tell her?

_ Don’t do this for me, do this for you.  _ Courtney’s voice pops into Isabela’s head, reminding her that she doesn’t have a way out of owning her actions that easily.

Goddammit. 

She looks back at the phone, looks back at the name on the screen.

It’s just two clicks. Select, delete contact. Select, delete contact. Select, delete contact.

She throws the phone back onto her bed, Brooke’s name still displayed on the screen, before flopping down next to it, rubbing her eyes.

God, she needs some Advil. 

When she picks the phone back up again, she exits the burner app and orders Chinese instead, trying not to think too hard about what’s really on her mind. It shouldn’t be this hard, this painful--it’s not like they even dated, not like they even  _ knew _ each other, not really. So why can’t she forget Brooke? Why is Brooke sticking so stubbornly in her mind, refusing to leave? 

Why doesn’t she  _ want _ Brooke to leave?

_ Change doesn’t happen for those who don’t want to change. You have to be motivated, yes, but you also have to be ready to change, and that starts with really, truly wanting it. _

Isabela wants to say that she wants to change. She really, truly does.

But maybe there’s a part of her that’s not ready. 

She heaves herself up off of her bed and walks into her living room, stopping suddenly as the memories of what she’d been about to do and where she’d been planning to go leave her brain. Fuck. She can’t even walk around her apartment right. 

Despite herself, she starts to laugh, and when tears hit her chin, she barely feels them. She’s too busy wishing to want to change. 

When she finally settles onto her couch, she feels numb and hollow, her whole mind fuzzed over with a feeling of loss. 

She clicks on Netflix without thinking, rooting through the menu until she finds what she’s looking for.

The icon and banner for the fourth episode of Aggretsuko begins to load.

_ It’s a year after graduation, and Isabela is opening the centre for the day. She unlocks the door and restocks the condom-holder, flips the sign above it to reveal its cheery invitation, beckoning clients to ‘COME IN!’ _

_ She used to find it funny. Now it’s been four years, and she no longer cracks a smile when she sees it.  _

_ Isabela sits down at the front desk and sighs, pressing and holding the computer’s power button for a full ten seconds before the screen blinks on, flashing a migraine-inducing blue. Goddamnit. When the fuck did that stop working?  _

_ A few hits and the screen blinks back to a functional homepage, only lagging once before Isabela is in and she can start her work. _

_ “Bonjour!” Some cheerful nineteen-year-old--Aquaria, maybe?--waltzes into the office, striding past Isabela to put her coat in the back room before roaming back in to start doing her own duties.  _

_ Isabela grunts but doesn’t offer much beyond that, despite the flash of guilt that moves through her chest in response to her own unfriendliness. It’s not that she doesn’t like Aquaria--the kid’s actually pretty brilliant, great at what she does and hardworking enough that she’ll probably be running the place in a couple of years. _

_ If she’s still  _ here _ in a couple of years. _

_ “I’m moving on.” Millie had grabbed Isabela’s hand across the front, squeezing it gently. “I got a job in the local Planned Parenthood. Management. It’s paying way more than this, and in a year or two, I could be the head of the centre’s education department.”  _

_ If Isabela had known that that would be Millie’s last shift, maybe she would have kissed her. Maybe she would have cried. _

_ Maybe Isabela would have realized that Millie would be just the first brick to fall from her wall. _

_ One by one, everyone at the centre had graduated, got promoted, moved on. Isabela had moved up the ranks, but could never seem to break through the ceiling, discover the secret that everyone else knew that helped them move on, help them leave.  _

_ Now, there are no more stones in Isabela’s defenses. She’s alone, immobile, and she is bored.  _

_ Aquaria brings a walk-in client to the counselling room for a chat, and Isabela takes in a sharp breath, switching out the tab of her budgeting software for the Glassdoor homepage. She needs a change, and she needs it now; a new job might be the very nudge she’s looking for.  _

_ Only she’s not a nurse, so clinics are out of the question. She’s not a social worker or a child & youth counselor, so counselling is a no, too. And she’s definitely no occupational therapist, so consulting disabled folks on sex aids is probably not going to fly. Even if she could probably do it all anyway.  _

_ Maybe she needs to go back to school first. She opens another tab, starts to type in the local community college’s website, when the click of heels on the centre’s floor snaps her attention away. _

_ “Hey.” a tattooed redhead smiles widely at Isabela, nodding to her. “I’m Kam, here to set up. For…for the event? The BDSM 101 workshop?” She knits her brow at Isabela’s blank stare, and then the realization hits Isabela with a jolt.  _

_ The BDSM 101 workshop. The event that  _ she  _ had organized for the community. The one that is today. Fuck.  _

_ “Am I too early?” Kam rocks back and forth on her feet, looking at Isabela sheepishly.  _

_ “No!” Isabela rockets up, then blushes. “No,” She repeats more quietly, “sorry.” _

_ “Maybe you should get the manager, my boss said her name was Isabela?” _

_ “Yeah.” Isabela nods, her face burning. “That’s me. Sorry, I don’t know where my mind’s at today.” _

_ It’s not a lie--she  _ doesn’t _ know where her mind is, not really. All she knows is it’s run away with her heart, and that certainly isn’t here. Not anymore. _

_ “No worries.” Kam laughs, extending a hand to shake Isabela’s, “It’s still early in the morning. So, where can I start setting up my gear?” _

“I think you should buy that girl a drink.” Kam sidles up next to Isabela at the bar, nodding her chin in the direction of a young woman a few feet away from them, one who’s tall, blonde, and staring right at them. Isabela snorts.

“You jokin’, Mary?” she turns back to her own beer, rolling her eyes, but Kam stops her, swiping the beer away before she can grab it to take a swig. “Hey!” 

“It’s been four months.” Kam sips Isabela’s beer, ignoring the younger woman’s glare as she continues, “Look, I get it. Brooke--don’t look at me like that, we’re  _ not _ giving her name so much power we can’t even say it--meant a lot to you. It’s okay. But you gotta move on somehow.”

Isabela says nothing, only sighs.

It’s true that it’s been a while, and things  _ have _ returned to normal, at least somewhat. Vanessa goes to work and comes home. Isabela goes out with friends, laughs at jokes, continues seeing Courtney. Downloads a dating app and plugs in her work name, just to make sure. She calls her sister and visits her family, takes a painting class once a week just to fill her time.

Only she still dreams about Brooke sometimes. Still does a double-take when she passes someone blonde on the street. Still finds that no matter how many matches she makes on Tinder, she can’t bring herself to send more than a few messages before ignoring the other girl completely. 

“Come on, you need your confidence back!” Kam nudges again. She’s right, of course; it’s been a while, and Isabela’s hesitation  _ is _ still getting in the way of things. Even Courtney has recommended finding someone new to move on with at this point. She just hasn’t found anyone yet, not anyone who could measure up to Brooke.

“It’s just sex, babe, I promise it’ll be okay.” Kam places a hand on Isabela’s shoulder, and she caves, casting a second glance over at the girl. She’s not bad-looking, really; in fact, she’s pretty much exactly Isabela’s type. And from the way she’s looking at Isabela, hungry and coy and like she’s just waiting for an invitation, she can tell that the feeling is mutual.

She  _ does _ need to get her confidence back. And it  _ is _ just sex. 

Besides, she doesn’t even need to be herself--she already knows that she can just be Vanessa, and that will keep her more than safe.

She swallows the guilt and caution in her chest and beckons the girl over with a wink, ready to give her exactly what she wants.

_ Isabela nervously taps her fingers on the diner table, her coffee forgotten and cold next to her. It’s 10:05. Five minutes late. _

_ Has she changed her mind? Isabela swallows hard, thinking back to when she first asked Kam to meet up with her. How nervous she’d been, how  _ excited _ she’d been to approach her.  _

_ Kam’s workshop was easily the most well-attended, enthusiastically-met outreach event the centre had seen since Isabela started working there. Kam had been mesmerizing to watch, her enthusiasm electrifying and easygoing, charismatic demeanor exactly what the audience needed to feel completely at ease. Questions flowed freely that night, no topic out of bounds, the dominatrix answering every single raised hand with the same smile, light tone, and thorough level of information that made her so easy to listen to. Just watching her, Isabela had realized what she’d been missing in her work lately--passion. Purpose. Enjoyment. _

_ Pretty much all the things she felt listening to and thinking about kink. About  _ doing _ kink.  _

_ Before she could think twice about it, the minute the last attendee had filtered out of the room, Isabela had found herself making a beeline for Kam, questions burning in her mind. _

_ “Oh, hey!” Kam runs into the diner, waving over at Isabela. “Sorry I’m late, session took some time to wrap up.”  _

_ “No worries!” Isabela waves the concern away. “Thanks for coming, I really appreciate it.” _

_ “Of course!” Kam slides into the seat across from Isabela, grabbing the menu that had been left on the table and flipping through it. “Did you already order?” She casts a glance over at Isabela’s coffee, and Isabela blushes. _

_ “No, just the coffee.” Isabela coughs, realizing how she probably could have come across as rude. “Oh! But don’t worry,” she adds quickly, “Feel free to order something, my treat.” _

_ Kam laughs, closing the menu. “Relax, baby, I’m teasing. Really, don’t be nervous! This isn’t a job interview.”  _

_ “Not yet, at least.” Isabela jokes with a wry smile, and when Kam laughs again, she finally finds herself able to relax. _

_ It’s not a job interview. They’re just talking. _

_ “So, you wanted to talk to me about becoming a dominatrix.” The laughter settles, and they become serious again, but this time, Isabela doesn’t blush or look away when she nods. No, not now. Kam needs to know that she’s serious, not just some giggling girl who’s intrigued by the mystery of sex work, but someone who’s actually considering it.  _

_ Someone who’s interested in knowing what it’s really about, what really goes into it. _

_ “Well, I’ll tell you all the boring details, but first, I gotta ask.” Kam leans over across the table, staring at Isabela intently. “Why d’you wanna become one in the first place?”  _

_ Isabela’s been asking herself that since arranging to meet with Kam in the first place. Why domming? Why now? Why doing it, instead of teaching about it? _

_ “Because I don’t wanna just tell people about kink. I wanna share it with them, experience it with them. I’ve been doing BDSM for four years now, with different partners. It ain’t just a relationship thing for me--I love doing it with different people, for its own sake. It’s fun, it’s sexy, it’s emotional. It’s lots of different things. And I wanna give that experience to people in ways just telling them about it will never be able to do.” _

_ Kam stares at Isabela for a moment more, her expression scrutinizing, but finally, after what seems like minutes, she relaxes, leaning back casually.  _

_ “Alright.” Isabela lets out a breath she didn’t even realize she’d been holding in as soon as Kam says it, the energy at the table relaxing along with her. “Well, to be honest, I can only really tell you about what I and some of the other girls do on a day-to-day basis, but if you like what you hear, and have questions I can’t answer, how about I take you to see my boss, Scarlet?”  _

_ “Sounds good to me.” Isabela nods, leaning over and folding her hands in front of her on the table intently, ready to listen.  _

_ They talk for two and a half hours that morning, and Isabela leaves the diner with a spring in her step and Scarlet’s email address scribbled on the back of a receipt in her pocket. _

The sex that night is nice, tame, gentle. A refreshing change of pace, although Isabela--no,  _ Vanessa, _ that’s what she’s calling herself tonight, she can’t forget that--supposes it’s not the same anyway. Work isn’t sex; not really, not if you asked her or any of the girls in the dungeon. 

If you asked anyone on the outside, the appearance of a whip alone would probably qualify it, but maybe that’s the reason they’re on the outside.

Work isn’t sex. So Vanessa works at making sex different, so that sex isn’t work. It’s the same as what it always was--a way to shut her brain off, a way to feel good, a way to bond and enjoy herself.

Well.  _ Was _ a way to do all those things.

The girl she’s with--Barbara? Brenda? Who the fuck knows? Is giving, not at all shy but not demanding either. Even without titles or gear, the girl makes a game of sex, one that’s fun, exploratory, as exciting as it is soft, as stimulating as it is comforting. 

But it’s not Brooke. 

Vanessa knows she has no right to think that, but she can’t help it. 

She doesn’t see Brooke’s face at all when the girl gets close to kiss her. And when the girl says her name-- _ Vanessa, Vanessa, Vanessa _ \--well, she’s only heard it once or twice on Brooke’s lips, but it sounded a thousand times better, more natural.

Like she might as well have been saying Vanessa’s real name, because that’s how Brooke made it feel. 

With this girl, though, it’s artificial, just like her touch, just like her mouth, just like her cry when Vanessa makes her come and her giggle afterwards when she says Vanessa’s like some kind of expert.

If only she knew, Vanessa thinks with a laugh. But she says nothing, only moves to leave. 

“Vanessa--Wait.” The girl grabs her wrist before she can shuffle out of bed, “Are you sure? It’s like 3 AM. I know it’s not a dangerous area, and you probably have Uber, but--if you wanna stay, you’re welcome to.”

She stays, though she’s not sure why. 

_ She goes through her contract meticulously, negotiating back and forth over it in a way Vanessa can tell Scarlet respects. _

_ Vanessa. _

_ It’s still weird to think of herself that way. _

_ “Wait, so Kam ain’t your real name?” she asks Kam one night after training finishes up, when all the girls who’ve been teaching her the ins and outs of professional domming are cleaning up for the night. _

_ “Nope.” Kam shakes her head. “Everyone works under a pseud. People know each others’ names, but usually, that comes later. That’s why no one asked yours today--it’s not that no one cares, just that they know you haven’t picked a pseud yet, and it’s kinda too soon to know your real one. They gotta be sure you’re gonna stick around before they open up, you know?” as she speaks, she takes out a cigarette and lighter, cocking an eyebrow at Isabela and extending the pack in her direction. Isabela shakes her head. _

_ “So how’d you come up with Kam, then?”  _

_ “Dunno.” Kam shrugs, lighting her cigarette and taking a drag, “Just did. Why, you thinkin’ of one?” _

_ “Vanessa. Vanessa Vanjie.” there’s no reason, not really; she’s always liked the name Vanessa, and Vanjie was her nickname in middle school. That’s all.  _

_ Now it’s just a matter of getting used to thinking of herself as Vanjie again.  _

Isabela leaves almost as soon as the girl wakes up that morning, and the girl doesn’t mind at all, only smiles as she waves her goodbye. It’s nice, really, and Isabela almost feels bad--this girl seemed like exactly the kind of person who would treat a girl well, someone she could get to know.

But in the daylight, her eyes are brilliant green, and so Isabela doesn’t even entertain the idea of staying longer.

As it turns out, the girl lives on the sixteenth floor out of an ungodly number of storeys, which leaves a very awkward, very slow wait for the elevator in front of Isabela. 

_ P. _

Whoever lives there must be really stinking rich, given how fancy floor sixteen is.

_ 32. _

Jesus Christ. 

_ 31. _

There’s a particularly long pause at that floor; there must be a lot of people getting on or off. For a Thursday morning, Isabela supposes that’s not so unreasonable. Still, as the floor numbers continue to count down, she can’t help but groan inwardly at the thought of how crowded the elevator will be. She’s getting ready to hold her breath all through the ride down when the doors finally ring and open, and then all of a sudden, Isabela  _ wishes _ there were a suffocating amount of people on the elevator.

No, it’s much, much worse than that.

“Vaness--”

She doesn’t wait for Brooke to finish calling out Vanessa’s name, calling out  _ her  _ name, fuck, doesn’t Brooke know better? Why does she have to say that,  _ why _ couldn’t she just have called her Isabela just that once, why couldn’t she just have said  _ nothing at all _ \--

She runs down sixteen flights of stairs so fast that she doesn’t even realize how much her chest hurts until she’s finally keeled over against the door out to the ground floor lobby, desperately gasping for air.

Brooke is here. Brooke lives in this building. Brooke rides that elevator every day, sees floor sixteen every day, knows the girl Isabela--no, not Isabela,  _ Vanessa _ \--just slept with. 

Knows that she can still call out Vanessa’s name, and that Isabela will still answer, because no matter which way she slices it, no matter which way Isabela looks, she will always see those green eyes, those white, slightly-crooked teeth that peek out when Brooke says it.

_ Vanessa. _

Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all enjoyed <3


	3. Stopped me in my tracks (put me in my place)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter, Isabela tried her best to move on, and might have if it hadn't been for a surprise encounter after a spontaneous hook-up. 
> 
> This chapter, A'keria and Isabela have a chat, and while reflecting on her and A'keria's friendship, Isabela learns exactly what made Brooke leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HIIII FOLKS!!! We're FINALLY back after all this time!!!! I'm really happy with this chapter, and I hope you guys like it too!! I promise the angst is almost over with fhdsjfkh--this'll be the last Super Angst chapter, I promise haha
> 
> Title from finally / beautiful stranger by Halsey. Thank you thank you thank you Holtz for beta-ing, you're the best <3
> 
> I AM NOT A DOMINATRIX AND HAVE NEVER BEEN ONE, NOR HAVE I EVER WORKED WITH ONE. Please don't take my depiction of dominatrix training as fact, bc I literally don't know if it is--I did extremely minimal research into that.

_ The very first thing that Scarlet requires Vanessa to do is act as a sub for one of the other dommes at work. _

_ “I know you switch in your personal life,” she explains, “But this is different. You don’t know these girls yet. The clients don’t know them either. I want you to go through the whole process with one of them, negotiation to scene to afterwards, so you get what it feels like for the client. Purely platonically, by the way—I’m not expecting you guys to do anything sexual. Unless, you know.” she punctuates the suggestion with a wink, “You’re both into that.” _

_ Vanessa nods despite the anxiety that begins to prickle at her skin at the suggestion. She supposes that that’s part of it too--the sudden realization that having a scene with a stranger leaves you vulnerable, open, defenseless in the face of judgment. Overthinking every detail before it’s even decided. _

_ It’s strange--Vanessa already knows that she’s safe, these women are professionals after all. But what she finds herself obsessing over isn’t her safety; rather, her mind spirals over how she’ll be perceived, what the domme will think of her. It’s hard to tell a partner what you like, but once they know, that’s the easier part--a partner already knows what you sound and look like when you’re close, when you’re coming, when you’re in a good pain versus bad. And a partner will either love it, because they like or love you, or won’t notice because they’re too busy liking or loving you to do so.  _

_ A professional, though--that’s different. A professional has a catalogue of people, faces, body languages and likes and dislikes, that they can reference. A professional pays keen attention to you with a sense of detachment that isn’t forgiving. A professional doesn’t have to like or love you. And in a way, that’s terrifying. _

_ What if Vanessa makes stupid faces? Or weird noises? Or her fetishes are the kind the other woman doesn’t want to do, ones that are weird, that make her some kind of loser for having? Sure, they might talk behind her back, but she isn’t just a client who can choose not to come back, who isn’t privy to the talk. If she comes off as stupid, or weird, or some kind of loser, then she’ll have to go to work every day with women who think of her that way. _

_ It’s not that personal. And every other domme has done it too, felt that vulnerability too. Vanessa knows that.  _ _ Still, that doesn’t help her insecurity fade.  _

_ “Hey, you Vanessa?”  _

_ Vanessa jumps at the voice behind her, a kind-but-firm southern drawl with a smoothness to it that almost quiets the thoughts racing in Vanessa’s mind. A young woman who looks only a bit older than Vanessa, and who isn’t much taller, stands looking at Vanessa with a soft, bemused smile, patiently waiting for her to get out of her own head and back into reality. _

_ “Yeah, that’s me.”  _

_ “I’m A’keria. You can call me Kiki though.” _

_ “Okay, Kiki.” Vanessa nods, and somehow, it helps.  _

_ “See, not so bad when I go from miss Akeria to good ol’ Kiki from the block, huh?” A’keria’s voice is teasing, her smile wide. “I know you nervous—you a Libra, I can tell, always worryin’ what people will think ‘bout you.” _

_ “How did you—“ _

_ “Pisces,” A’keria winks, gesturing for Vanessa to follow her down the hallway towards the meeting room Scarlet showed her before. “We intuitive.” _

_ “Huh.” Vanessa feels some of the tension leave her body, her shoulders finally relaxing a little. For whatever reason—her smile, maybe, or her honesty, or the fact that her eyes sparkle with equal parts humour or understanding—Vanessa can tell that she’s safe with this woman. _

_ It’s comforting, and almost enough to make her doubts disappear. _

_ “Huh.” A’keria laughs, waving a hand as she leads Vanessa into the office with a wry smile. “Now come on in and let’s get started. Good ol’ Kiki ain’t got all day.”  _

“So, run this by me one more time.” A’keria puts down the mug of green tea across from Isabela, gaze firmly locked on her as she waits for her answer. It’s after work and they’re back in Isabela’s apartment, debriefing in their pyjamas with Lizzo playing and plenty of wine in the background. It had been A’keria’s idea--when Vanessa had come into work that morning, she had been on the verge of tears, tears that broke almost immediately after her last session of the day, the minute A’keria had come up and asked her what was wrong. 

_ You need a break and someone to talk to.  _ A’keria had declared, and she had been right--it was exactly what Isabela needed, and so the two of them had driven to her place together, getting ready for a girl’s night that would hopefully give Isabela all the support she’d need.

Only she’d forgotten that sometimes, when she thought the occasion called for it, A’keria’s brand of support was less therapy and more interrogation. 

Isabela sighs.

“I told you, nothin’ much actually happened. I hooked up with some girl from the bar last night. I stayed the night. I waited for the elevator and Brooke was in it when it came. She called out my n--my work name.” she sighs when she admits it, a little part of her dying inside when she remembers the name that fell from Brooke’s lips that morning.

_ Vanessa.  _ It’s her name, technically--the one that Brooke knows. But it’s not the one Isabela wants her to, and that’s enough to make it feel like a knife being plunged and twisted into her heart. 

“And then you spun out.” A’keria’s face hasn’t changed, her eyes still scanning Isabela’s like the more she looks at her, the more she might figure out what Isabela is thinking. 

But the truth is, even Isabela doesn’t know where her mind is right now, and she doesn’t think she’ll be able to place it any time soon. 

“And then I spun out.” Isabela nods. 

A’keria sighs deeply, and for a moment, there’s a thread of doubt that worms its way into Isabela’s chest, tightening her throat. It’s been four months, countless therapy sessions, and tons of late-night chats with A’keria, and now here she is, back at square one when she doesn’t even really know why. Is A’keria finally getting tired of her? Has she finally overstayed her welcome, pushed even her most supportive friend to the limit? 

Has she finally crossed the line into being a burden? 

But of course, A’keria notices how crestfallen she feels, because she frowns, gives Isabela a hard look as she crosses her arms over her chest.

“Now don’t you look at me like that, Vanj.” she scolds. “You already  _ know _ I ain’t tired of you, I ain’t never tired of you, alright? I’m just tryin’ to think of how to help you, ‘cause I’m at a loss for words at this point.”

“Makes two of us.” Isabela snorts. “I just don’t get it, Kiki. Nothin’ even happened, really. All I did was see her and hear her voice. I shouldn’t--I shouldn’t have panicked like I did.”  _ Like I am now _ , she wants to say, but she doesn’t, because she doesn’t need to--A’keria’s already walking over to her, wrapping her into a tight, warm hug. 

“I know, baby.” A’keria pats Isabela on the arm, rocking her a little. “It’s hard, girl. I know it is. You loved her. But the fact that you so invested... You ever been so invested in someone before?”

“I ain’t never loved nobody like this before.” Isabela sniffs. She knows what A’keria’s suggesting, and why she’s suggesting it, but it’s hitting too close to home, something that hurts to think about.

That maybe what’s going on isn’t healthy (she knows it isn’t--Courtney’s helped her realize as much). That maybe, just maybe, she’s idealized Brooke a little too much, to the point where she doesn’t love her at all, just doesn’t want to let that feeling go. Doesn’t want to be that vulnerable again. There’s probably a thread of truth to the statement, but that doesn’t mean what she feels isn’t real. Isn’t  _ frustrating.  _ Doesn’t carry some other meaning, like maybe the fact that she doesn’t want to move on is because she can’t abandon the stubborn feeling that if she just holds on a little longer, things just might turn around the way she wants them to. 

Maybe it’s wishful thinking. Maybe it’s projection. But somehow, deep in her heart, she still believes that maybe all Brooke needs is a little more time, and hearing anything to the contrary just isn’t an option right now. 

“I know you haven’t.” A’keria acquiesces, “But that don’t mean it’s good for you, baby. I don’t think she’s good for you at all.”

Wait. 

What?

_ Things aren’t as awkward between Vanessa and A’keria after her training scene as Vanessa thought they would be. If anything, it’s broken some sort of ice between them. The next day that Vanessa comes into work, A’keria is waiting for her with a calm smile and kind eyes.  _

_ “You ready for your first session today?” she watches Vanessa start getting prepared, helps her set up equipment.  _

_ She’s not alone, not yet--she’s shadowing A’keria, doing a dual session with someone who agreed to have a trainee domme participate in their scene. And in a way, she’s grateful it’s A’keria--as they get ready, A’keria answers questions Vanessa has before she even finds the words to ask them, and when the clock gets close to the client’s appointment time, she finds something new to talk about, something not related to work or kink. _

_ “You got hobbies, Vanj?”  _

_ Vanj. It’s a nickname of a nickname, but the minute A’keria says it, it fits perfectly, and so she nods, smiles, and starts to chat A’keria’s ear off about dance and make-up and adventures at the club.  _

_ Within two days, everyone at the house is calling Vanessa Vanj and asking her advice on make-up, and things start to feel a little more like home. All thanks to A’keria, who says nothing about it--only smiles and rolls her eyes when Vanessa tries to thank her for showing her around, being there for her and helping her feel at ease.  _

_ “That’s what friends do, ain’t it?”  _

_ Vanessa’s heart skips a beat, the word rushing in her mind and spreading a blush across her face.  _

_ Friends. Not mentors, not teachers, not co-workers.  _

_ Friends.  _

_ “I guess so.” Vanessa smiles as the word replays in her head over and over again. She has a friend here--no, more than one friend. If she’s friends with A’keria, then she knows she’s friends with everybody.  _

_ “Say, you got plans tonight? Me and big Silk are goin’ to the club later, and it’s always a party with her big ass. I got a feelin’ you gonna fit right in with the chaos, too. You know, if you wanna.”  _

_ “I wanna.” Vanessa nods enthusiastically, and A’keria grins widely.  _

_ “Good to hear it. Well, come on then--we off the clock now, and Silk wants to go buy a new dress before we hit the floor tonight.”  _

_ The three of them spend the rest of the evening together, talking and laughing and trying on clothes that Silky doesn’t fit, that none of them will ever really afford. By the time they head over to the club, Vanessa feels as if she’s known both A’keria and Silky for years. And when they finally climb into an uber to crash at A’keria’s place for the night, she’s absolutely sure of what’s been on her mind ever since she and A’keria met. _

_ She’s already closer with A’keria than she has been with any other friends for a while. And she’s almost certain it’s gonna stay that way. Because A’keria is someone she can trust, and if the way A’keria has welcomed her so warmly is any indication, then the feeling is mutual. _

_ “Hey. Hey.” the impulse comes to Vanessa in a flash, and maybe it’s because she’s drunk, or maybe it’s just because she can tell it’ll pay off, but she follows it without a second thought. “What’s your real name, Kiki?” _

_ A’keria smiles warmly, giggling a little. “Bitch, finally. I thought you was never gonna ask.” _

_ Vanessa rolls her eyes. “I ain’t wanna push you, is all. ‘Cause I know them pisces ain’t that free with their trust.”  _

_ A’keria snorts, but nods, and Vanessa thanks God she brushed up on her astrology knowledge right after her first day of knowing A’keria. _

_ “I’m Chanel.” the other woman extends a hand, and Vanessa takes it, her grip as loose as the alcohol is making her feel.  _

_ “Nice to meet you, Chanel. I’m Isabela.”  _

_ “Hey, what about me, hoes?” Silky roars from the opposite side of A’keria, crossly folding her arms in front of her chest. “You ain’t tryin’ to know the big bitch too?” _

_ “Oh, hush yourself.” A’keria scolds. “We already been knew your name is actually Silky, you made a huge show of braggin’ about how you like to hide in plain sight just last week.”  _

_ Silky scoffs, but says nothing, and then after a moment, they all break into peals of laughter, the good mood carrying them through the rest of the night and into the next morning. _

“What do you mean, she’s not…” Isabela feels the breath leave her body all at once, as if she’s been body-slammed square in her chest. Brooke isn’t good for her? 

A’keria has said plenty of stuff. She’s said stuff that’s usually  _ right _ . That the situation is tough, that it’s wearing on Isabela in all the wrong ways, that she needs to use the skills Courtney taught her. That up until now, she’d been getting better, had finally started to move on.

But Brooke not being good for her?

That’s something A’keria has never said before, and Isabela can’t figure out where it’s coming from.

“I thought you liked Brooke.” she tries to keep the words from coming out defensively, but she can’t help the edge of accusation they take on. “You told me she ain’t got a bad bone in her body.”

“Well yeah, but she still trade.”

“So what?” 

“So when I talked to her, she ain’t know nothing but what trade all know about you. But she still done think she in love with you anyway.”

The declaration hits Isabela like a train, every word out of A’keria’s mouth making her blood run colder and colder. Brooke really had been in love with her--maybe still  _ is _ in love with her. And A’keria had known it, without even saying a word. She’d kept the hope from Isabela and watched while Isabela drowned. 

The whole thing makes Isabela feel almost dizzy, as if she’s slipped out of reality and into air too thin to breathe.

“When did you talk to her?” she winces internally at how her voice shakes, comes out barely above a whisper, letting on the wound that’s already opening before the conversation has even truly begun. A’keria’s her best friend--she should stay calm, give her the benefit of the doubt.

Then again, A’keria’s her best friend, which means Isabela already knows the kind of answers she’s going to get. 

“She came to me the night before she left.” A’keria softens, speaks in a hushed tone that only serves to put Isabela more on edge, the pitying whisper grating against her nerves. “Asked me for advice. She said she loved you and didn’t wanna hurt you. Figured that with her bein’ trade, it would end badly for you. So I told her the truth.” 

Just like that, the world gets even colder, becomes shades darker. It’s overwhelming, the way she can’t believe it, but completely can. Of course A’keria would do this--A’keria always does this, meddles where she doesn’t belong in the name of protecting her friends. And sometimes it’s welcome, but in this case…

“Don’t be givin’ me that look, Vanj.” A’keria’s voice takes on an exasperated drawl, and it makes Isabela see red, makes a fire light in her chest and burn up her throat. “I asked her some questions about you and she ain’t know how to answer a single one. That really seem like someone who could love you?” 

“I wouldn’t know.” Isabela answers coldly, her voice still shaking, but this time with hardness, anger, not doubt or fear of what she’s about to learn. “You took that opportunity away from me.” 

“Opportun--Vanj, listen to yourself!” A’keria scolded, a flash of indignance crossing her face as she continued, “You been so damn torn up over this bitch, and you think I was robbin’ you of something? You actin’ as delusional as she was bein’.” 

“Am I? Am I really?” Isabela scoffs. “‘Cause I’mma say again,  _ I wouldn’t know _ . I don’t know what coulda happened or what couldn’t, cause I didn’t get the chance to even talk about it with her.” 

“Look, I’m not sayin’ it was a fantastic situation, I just didn’t wanna see you hurt--” 

“I  _ am _ hurt!” Isabela spits, though right now, she barely hears her own voice for the ringing in her ears and the pounding of blood in her head, the tightness in her throat. She knows what should hurt--knows that it should be A’keria’s betrayal that stings, her meddling and creation of a terrible situation that makes her feel on the verge of tears. But it’s not. 

It’s how A’keria’s face is so calm, so steady, as if she thinks Isabela’s being overemotional, that she needs to contrast it somehow by staying neutral. As if she doesn’t understand the gravity of the situation, and cleary doesn’t think she’s done anything wrong. Doesn’t understand how she’s hurt Isabela.

All this time, A’keria had been Isabela’s main support--her protector, her counselor, her confidant and best friend. 

And all this time, it had been a lie. 

Still, there’s a part of her that believes that something has been a misunderstanding in this moment, that there’s something in the conversation, some sliver of A’keria’s redeeming qualities that can be saved. And so she takes in a breath, deep and cold and slow, and tries again.

“It’s not about Brooke or her rejection of me.” Isabela explains, forcing her voice to stay measured, almost flat. “If that had happened, whatever. But because of your meddling--because you told her she didn’t actually love me, she freaked out and left, and I was left not knowing why.”

“Because--” a flash of regret runs over A’keria’s face, and for a moment, Isabela thinks that she’ll apologize, that she’ll finally come around and admit she was wrong.

Unfortunately, she isn’t so lucky.

“Vanj, the truth is, I told her to leave. I thought that would spare you pain. I didn’t realize that you’d take it this hard. I figured--I figured she was just a fantasy to you, too, and so I thought the sooner she cut it off, the better for both of you.” 

And just like that, the fire that had been building inside Vanessa’s chest explodes, swallows her up completely, burning her numb.

“I didn’t get any closure.” she doesn’t try to wipe away the tears filling her eyes, doesn’t try to hide the waver in her voice this time--better A’keria see it, see the kind of pain she’s caused.

“Vanj--” A’keria tries again, tries to stand up and bring Isabela close, but she shakes her head.

“‘Cause of you and your--your shitty interference, I was devastated. I didn’t know what happened or why. I didn’t even get a chance to see if she wanted to make it work with me, or if we coulda. You took that from me. You took all of that experience from me. Everythin’ I needed to heal, I didn’t get, because you thought you knew better. I--I can’t forgive you for that.” 

Finally, for whatever reason, A’keria’s face crumples, fills with real remorse. For a moment, Isabela wants to accept it, wants to ask for an apology and then put everything behind her, but something in her can’t. It’s too little, too late; too much to heal, and not enough medicine to. 

“Bela, I’m--” 

“Save it.” Isabela turns away, taking in a deep breath and finally wiping her eyes. “And get out of my fucking apartment. I don’t wanna see you no more.”

_ A’keria has two burner apps on her phone: one for clients and one for men. And as far as Vanessa knows, the only man A’keria’s ever moved out of that app is Marcus Johnson. From what Isabela sees in his pictures and the snippets of texts she’s seen from him, Marcus is A’keria’s usual type—tall, dark, and handsome, with a deep velveteen voice and biceps the size of Isabela’s head. Wide, warm, white-toothed smile and a sense of humour that matches A’keria’s to a T. _

_ The main difference between Marcus and the guys A’keria usually goes for is that he’s also smart, practical, a little shy, and someone that A’keria met at church. Which means that unlike every other man in A’keria’s phone, Marcus has never so much as touched A’keria’s ass.  _

_ “It’s a sweet romance.” A’keria beams whenever she tells the girls at the house about him. “Don’t need no dick, we got plenty of love other ways.”  _

_ At first, it’s nice to see. The dating scene is hard for sex workers; it’s generally a bad idea to tell people what you do, at least at first, and that builds a wall up. A’keria is usually the person most aware of this difficulty; she always warns the other girls at the house to stay safe, always expresses a desire to meet (and subsequently intimidate) any partners that pop up in conversation. Always wants to make sure no one gets hurt, physically or emotionally, and that when she can’t prevent the pain, she’s there to help soothe it.  _

_ So seeing A’keria head over heels for someone like Marcus, who knows what she does and doesn’t mind, who focuses on her amazing qualities and intelligence instead of what’s on her resume? It’s not just an amazing thing happening to her best friend—it’s a sign of hope for Isabela, a possibility that she, too, can find someone to share her life with. That maybe, just maybe, she can get that Notebook kind of love she knows she’s worthy of.  _

_ The only thing left to really seal the deal, really cement that Marcus is worthy of A’keria after all, is for Isabela to meet him.  _

_ They pick a cafe near A’keria’s place on a Sunday afternoon, the atmosphere light and sunny despite the undercurrent of anxiety mixing with the excitement that buzzes in Vanessa’s chest. There are so many possibilities, so many undefined variables as to what Marcus could be like, who he could be. A’keria is pragmatic, a good judge of character, insightful--surely, that means he matches the description she’s given Isabela. But then again, A’keria is also a romantic, a big dreamer, someone who gives others infinite chances in the hopes of bringing out the best in them. So what if Marcus isn’t as nice as A’keria’s made him out to be, because she just hasn’t seen that side of him yet? _

_ Isabela pushes the thought out of her mind as she sees A’keria round the corner; her job is to protect A’keria, and support her. Keep her happy. Accept those who she loves and love them, too.  _

_ A’keria is pragmatic, a dreamer, insightful, forgiving. Isabela is sure Marcus will be too. _

_ “Kiki?” Isabela frowns as A’keria storms up to the table, face already streaked with tears. “Where’s Marcus?” _

_ A’keria doesn’t answer; she only shakes her head and devolves into rapid, shaky sobs, sobs that shatter Isabela’s heart into a million pieces the longer they go on. _

_ “He done got up in front of the whole church today.” A’keria finally chokes out after Isabela’s ordered her a cup of coffee and a large slice of cherry pie. “Was gonna give a testimony--y’all Catholics don’t do ‘em like we do, I think, it’s when someone gets up in front of the whole place and tells some story about how Jesus saved ‘em.” _

_ “Okay, werk.” Isabela nods despite the creeping suspicion that she knows where the story is going. _

_ A’keria is a good judge of character. Surely it’s not going where Isabela thinks it is.  _

_ “No, baby, not werk.” A’keria wipes the tears welling up anew in her eyes away with her sleeve. “He ain’t talk about himself. He talked about his girlfriend who a dominatrix for a living. How he was led to the life of a sinner and how he can see Christ changin’ her bit by bit.” _

_ “Oh, Jesus, Kiki--” _

_ “Then he done said he gonna push her to leave her sin behind for good, like Jesus told him too--got down on one knee and proposed to me. Told me I ain’t gotta be nothin’ but his wife.” _

_ And there it was. The cafe space, once open, lively, and airy, became cramped, stuffy, too crowded and noisy to breathe. The floor crumbled under Isabela’s feet, and her stomach lurched with a mix of anger, sadness, and a sense of betrayal, however inappropriate it was for her to feel that way. _

_ The fucker had outed her best friend. Had humiliated her in front of a community that was immensely important to her. Had seen her as an object to save, not as a person to share a beautiful life with. But worst of all, he had strung her along--played with her feelings, pretended to be something he wasn’t, all for the sake of his own ego. And by doing that, he’d been exactly like all the men A’keria had tried her best to avoid. The type of man A’keria had finally thought she could move beyond. _

_ “Trash.” Isabela mutters bitterly, “The man ain’t nothing but utter, absolute fuckin’ trash.” _

_ A’keria laughs hollowly, but says nothing. And even though the silence bothers Isabela, even though she can barely stand to see her most chatty, sage friend rendered speechless by heartbreak, she understands. _

_ A’keria doesn’t need advice right now, and doesn’t need to rant or vent. She just needs someone, someone who she knows loves her and has her best interest at heart. _

_ “Come on, mama.” Isabela slid some cash and a tip on their table and came over to A’keria’s side to help her up, hug her tight. “I gotchu, okay? Always. I’m always here for you. You know that, right?”  _

_ “Right.” A’keria sniffled, hugging Isabela back and burrowing her face into Isabela’s shoulder.  _

_ “I love you, girl. Always will.” Isabela whispered, and even though A’keria said nothing, she squeezed Isabela a little harder, and Isabela could feel her nodding against her.  _

_ “Now let’s get you home.” _

The next few days are torturous, and Vanessa is almost glad when Friday rolls around, signalling the end of the work week. The house has become icy, awkward, although nothing much has changed. At least, nothing that anyone else would notice--Vanessa and A’keria keep it civil, try to keep up appearances in the interest of not creating drama, not making anyone feel like they have to pick sides. The house is work, after all, and anyway, it’s Isabela and Chanel who have beef; Vanessa and A’keria are just fine. 

That’s what Vanessa tells herself as she gets ready for work in the morning, at least. 

When she walks into the house that morning, A’keria doesn’t make eye contact, and even though they chat like normal, Vanessa can’t help the undertone of tension in her voice. And when A’keria’s last client of the night cancels, she doesn’t pop by Vanessa’s room to say good-bye. 

“She done fucked up hard.” Silky sighs as she watches A’keria go, and even though Vanessa technically hadn’t said anything, technically hadn’t asked Silky to say anything, either, she knows the comment is directed at her. “I hope you know she’s sorry, though, Vanj.”

Vanessa snorts. “I don’t give a fuck, bitch. Like you said, she fucked up hard, an’ I ain’t heard no sorry from her yet.” 

“You know she’s too proud for that.” Silky shakes her head.

“Ain’t my problem.” Vanessa grunts, already starting to walk away. “I’m tired of her pride. Ain’t bring me nothing but trouble.” 

Silky doesn’t say anything in response to that, so Vanessa disappears behind the corner and sulks back to her room to prep for her next client. 

At least, she tries to; when she reaches the door, she stops dead in her tracks, eyebrows shooting up in surprise at the sight of Scarlet leaning up against her door, a new file in her arms and a tall, thin young woman standing behind her.

“I thought you cancelled--”

“I need a consultation.” Yvie says, taking a step forward towards Vanessa and looking at her pleadingly. “Right now.” 

Vanessa looks from Scarlet to Yvie, back to her room, then over to the door. Her next client is due in fifteen minutes--if her hunch about what Yvie wants to consult about is right, then that’s not near enough time to talk. If Vanessa even wants to talk at all; she’s still not sure about that, not sure she wants to hear whatever conversation Yvie might lay at her feet. 

Then again, if she turns Yvie away, then she might never get a chance like this again.

“I have a client in fifteen.” she exhales deeply, already regretting her decision but forcing herself forward regardless. “If you’re still around in an hour and a half, then we can talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all enjoyed!!


	4. Never fallen from quite this high

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> LAST CHAPTER: A'keria revealed her role in Brooke's abrupt exit.
> 
> THIS CHAPTER: Isabela's life has been turned upside down, but Yvie shows up with a plan to set things right again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUESS WHO'S BACK BACK BACK AGAIN
> 
> I want to say a big thank you to everyone who encouraged me, sent me love, and was so patient with me while I wrote this chapter. Every ask y'all sent (thank you thank you thank you Barbie for fielding the anons for me <3), comment y'all left, every kudos y'all gave me means SO MUCH. Each one made my heart so full and kept me going when I was frustrated or discouraged--this fic is my baby, and it makes me really emotional knowing that it's so special to so many of you, just like it's special to me. You're all wonderful <3
> 
> Thank you above all to Holtz for encouraging me, calming me down when I get into a IT'S NOT COMING OUT FAST ENOUGH!!! I'M STARVING THE CHILDREN!!! fit of insecurity, and beta-ing not just when I finished but along every step of this fic, including brainstorming with me to make sure I got every scene right. You're a superstar <3 <3 <3
> 
> Title from Ocean Eyes by Billie Eilish. I hope y'all enjoy <3

As a kid, Isabela used to feel most at peace when it snowed. She still isn’t sure why she had loved snow so much back then. Maybe something she’d read, or heard someone say, or maybe it had just been one of those crazy, random ideas that pop into kids’ heads. Maybe it was just that she had been a lonely kid who didn’t quite fit in and had more than her fair share of shit to deal with at home. But no matter the reason, back then, Isabela had always looked at the snow and felt like it was a sign that everything was going to be okay.

When Isabela finally settles into the consultation room with Yvie following close behind, she looks out the window and sees flakes beginning to fall, and hopes that maybe, just maybe, tiny-her was right. 

“So, does she know you’re here?” Vanessa slides into a chair opposite Yvie at the consultation room’s desk, leaning back and folding her arms across her chest in what she hopes is some kind of power move, at least somewhat intimidating.

“No.” Yvie shakes her head, “If she did, she would’ve stopped me.” 

Yvie must notice some hurt in Vanessa’s face, see the inkling of upset that she feels at the thought that Brooke doesn’t want anything to do with her, after all, because the next thing Yvie does is sigh heavily, rolling her eyes.

“Look, it’s not what you think, okay?” Yvie snaps. “ _ God, _ y’all are so fucking dramatic. She thinks you hate her, that’s why she wouldn’t want me talking to you. ‘Cause she doesn’t want you to hate her even more.” 

“What?” Vanessa feels her heart stop, the statement hitting her square in the chest and slapping her across the face. “Why would she--”

_ Oh.  _

Because Brooke tried to call out Vanessa’s name, and she ran. And in that process, she’d given Brooke a taste of her own shitty medicine without even trying to, and left a bitter taste in the blonde’s mouth. 

One that tore open her scars and started the whole grieving process over for her, too. 

It’s a strange realization, that Brooke’s actions at the conference had hurt her just as much as it had Vanessa. That she still needs closure and healing and help to move on. That Vanessa isn’t alone in her hurt, as much as she’s felt that way--in fact, Brooke probably feels that same alienation, too. And somehow, that breaks Vanessa’s heart even more than anything that has happened over the past months. 

Then again, maybe Vanessa has known those things this whole time, after all. Maybe the regret and concern she’s feeling right now is exactly why she hasn’t wanted to face these facts sooner.

“How is she doing?” Vanessa chews her lip, stares down at the desk in front of herself, because how do you look at the best friend of the woman you love, the woman you hurt without even meaning to, in the eyes?

“Not great.” Yvie sighs, sounding as hopeless as Vanessa feels. “It’s been…complicated, to say the least.”

Vanessa nods, laughs harshly, because she knows the feeling-- _ God _ , does she know the feeling, to the point where she probably doesn’t need to hear Yvie elaborate. But she wants to, because this is as close to Brooke as she’ll get right now, and even if that’s still not very close, it’s something. 

“Been complicated for me too,” Vanessa admits, “but we both got time now, don’t we?”

“Yeah.” Yvie laughs bitterly, leaning back in her chair. “I guess we do.”

“So, I’mma ask again.” Vanessa breathes in, tries to channel her own persona and stay assertive, but can’t help how soft her voice comes out when she finally repeats her question. “How is she?” 

“She can’t stop thinking about you.” Yvie admits, her gaze sliding from Vanessa and instead looking beyond her, out the window, watching the snow fall. “She feels so guilty. She feels like she’s hurt you, and she regrets leaving, and she…she thinks you hate her. And she kind of thinks you’re right to do so. That’s what worries me the most, honestly.”

Vanessa feels a pang in her chest, a searing rush of empathy that makes it almost hard to breathe. It’s so quintessentially Brooke that it hurts--being worried about Isabela, not about herself. Loving Isabela so hard that she hates herself.

But like it or not, Brooke’s feelings aren’t totally unjustified—she didn’t have to listen to A’keria, after all, and certainly could have been a little less dramatic about it even when she did. As much as Vanessa—as  _ Isabela— _ wants to ignore that fact, absolve Brooke of that guilt right now, it’s very apparent that she can’t. Because Yvie is here right now, asking Vanessa for help, and Isabela is completely alone.

_ Brooke doesn’t look any less nervous the second session than the first, and honestly? It’s kind of cute. Vanessa is used to clients who walk in with an air of bravado, a machismo that’s put on so obviously that Vanessa knows it’s a front from the moment her title first leaves their lips. She doesn’t mind; she knows how it feels, and frankly, if it helps them feel comfortable, all the better. Whatever will make the clients happy works for her, because when a client is at ease, so is she.  _

_ Still, Brooke is different, and it’s kind of refreshing. Where some clients grin and bear Vanessa’s sarcastic, biting tone, Brooke shrinks back at it, yet leans into it, responding honestly and enthusiastically, like she really does want to please Vanessa. Not that the others don’t--it’s just that there’s a wall there that Brooke doesn’t seem to have the ability to put up. When Vanessa slaps Brooke across the face, she gasps in a way that’s so real, so raw, that even though Vanessa can’t quite grasp why, it sends a shiver up her spine. And when Brooke kneels down, kisses the shiny surface of Vanessa’s boots, there’s a tenderness there that makes Vanessa’s heart soften, a warmth spreading through her as she watches Brooke’s eyes flutter closed and a light blush appear on her cheeks. And then there’s the way Brooke texts--at first, so formal, so stiff, and yet somehow innocent, and then, once Vanessa tells her to relax, somehow relieved. As if Vanessa’s broken down that final wall, finally shown Brooke once and for all that she’s safe, and when out of the scene, on equal footing. _

_ It’s something that’s comforting to most clients, but with Brooke, somehow, it’s mostly comforting to Vanessa herself. Because in a weird way, she feels almost protective of Brooke--wanting to give the woman what she needs, yes, but also wanting to keep her safe and happy in a way that’s different from her other clients, though she can’t quite figure out how or why.  _

_ Maybe it’s just that when Brooke thanks Vanessa for denying her an orgasm, it’s not just a breathless phrase fueled by a role or adrenaline, but an honest, excited expression, full of the kind of gratitude only someone who’s let go completely can muster. _

_ Vanessa can tell from the way Brooke starts the scenes versus the way she ends them that the blonde doesn’t get that chance very often, and it makes Vanessa all the more eager to provide those opportunities again and again.  _

_ “Hands against the wall, worm--no, don’t stand up, who said you can stand up?” Vanessa sneers as Brooke scrambles to follow her orders, lets out a little gasp when Vanessa brings the flogger down on her ass. “What, you can’t kneel on two legs? You’re that stupid? There we go, finally. Good girl.” _

_ The way Brooke blushes and smiles at the praise, giggles a little under her breath, is so adorable that Vanessa has to stop herself from letting out an  _ awwww _ . But she maintains her character, pulls down Brooke’s skirt and steadies herself behind her. _

_ “Take it nicely like a good little slut, and I’ll reward you, alright? And remember to thank me after each one.”  _

_ Brooke’s gratitude gets louder and louder after each hit, and her screams echo in Vanessa’s ears long after she’s gone.  _

“Look,” Yvie’s voice softens, sympathy coating her words as she continues, “I know you miss her, okay? And she misses you too. I’m not saying you need to get back together, but…”

Vanessa looks up at Yvie, hope and defeat clashing in her heart.  _ I’m not saying you need to get back together, but… _

“But what?”

“Do you really not want to see her at all? Like even one more time?” Yvie watches Vanessa carefully, her eyes picking the other woman apart, and if it weren’t for the character she’s playing, the front she’s put up, Vanessa may have shrunken back. But she can’t, because even though Yvie’s words make her throat go tight, it’s not the time.

Brooke doesn’t want to see Isabela; so why should Vanessa open Isabela up to someone who isn’t her?

“How d’you know she wants to see me?” Vanessa challenges, because it’s all she can do, all she knows how to do in the moment. “I’m not Vanessa outside of work, how d’you know she wants to see the person I am then?” 

Vanessa knows the answer and that what she’s saying is crap, that Brooke wants the real her. But she can’t come across as desperate or show weakness. If she does, who knows what balance might get thrown off. What her vulnerability might break. 

Unfortunately, Yvie’s not as easy an opponent as Vanessa was hoping she’d be.

“You know Brooke as well as I do, girl. Don’t pretend you don’t.” Yvie sighs, leans back in her chair, folds her arms across her chest. “She loves you so bad it hurts, and you pretending she doesn’t is just you trying to protect yourself.”

Vanessa snorts. Yvie’s right--hell, she’s had Vanessa’s number since before she’s walked in the door. But Vanessa is one stubborn bitch, so she squashes the desire to admit it, to end the dialogue and cut to the chase of how to get Brooke back. That’s not how this will go; she  _ refuses _ to let this be how it goes.

“Believe what you want, girl. You don’t owe her anything, after the stunt she pulled. But we’ve been sitting here for like what, fifteen minutes? And I can already tell you’re not over her, either. Everyone else out there knows it too, otherwise I wouldn’t have been allowed to come see you at all. So can you just listen? Or is your mind already made up that you’re gonna run away again?”

The words feel like a slap across the face, a sensation Vanessa’s not used to being on the receiving end of. And for a moment, she flounders, because the statement is a low blow, almost cruel to put out in the open.

But it’s also true, and that’s what hurts the most.

“So what?” Vanessa finally says after a moment, the question barely loud enough to be heard if it weren’t for the dead silence that had fallen between them. “What do you want me to do about all this?”

“Nothing really.” Yvie shrugs. “I just want to hear your side of the story. And then I want you to listen.”

_ Vanessa’s boundaries are simple. She doesn’t do oral, doesn’t have any of her clients touch her in a sexual way of any kind--she’s the only one that does the fucking, never the other way around. No hugging, no kissing (unless it’s her boots, of course). Cis men don’t get handjobs, she’s had one too many bad experiences with that, but they can stroke themselves the way she tells them to. Other than that, most stuff is fair game, especially if she’s known a client long enough. Not just for her own safety, but for theirs, too. _

_ Brooke has certainly passed that threshold, so when she acts out during a scene, Vanessa has no problem dragging out a strap. She’s not sure why she chooses that particular punishment--maybe because it’s on Brooke’s will list, but they haven’t actually tried it yet. Maybe because Brooke  _ does _ love having Vanessa’s fingers buried in her pussy, and a strap is a step up from that that might stretch her limits that subtle little hair’s breadth that punishments are designed to reach. Maybe it’s just that Vanessa happens to be wearing some really nice shorts today, the kind of shorts that look fantastic with a strap fastened over them. Either way, she tells Brooke not to move as she turns towards her toy chest, keeping a keen ear open to listen for signs of disobedience, for shuffling or squirming or the wet sound of fingers in or on Brooke’s cunt. Hums to herself as she takes out her harness, slips into it slowly so that Brooke can see, can know what’s coming. Turns around to show Brooke what she’s brought on herself, grins mischievously as her heart beats faster with excitement. _

_ But just like that, everything falls apart. _

_ “No, I--no, I don’t want that, take it away, please don’t--I can’t look at--Stop. Red, red, please, stop, red.” Brooke’s eyes are wide with terror, glassy with an expression Vanessa’s seen before as they settle on the dildo between the dominatrix’s legs. “Red, please, red…”  _

_ There’s a split second of indecision, Vanessa’s heart stopping as she tries to think of what variable to intervene on first. Whether it should be the collar on Brooke’s neck or the spreader bar holding her legs open, or-- _

_ Oh, fuck. The pieces all snap together just as fast as they’d come apart, and Vanessa looks down at herself, realizing what it is that’s caused everything to go sideways. _

_ Her strap. She needs to take off her strap. _

_ Before Brooke can say “red” again, Vanessa springs into action. The strap goes back into the toy chest, and Vanessa practically flies over to Brooke to get everything off of her, set her free. Ask her if she’s okay, if she’s hurt, what she needs. If she wants to leave the room, go get some tea. _

_ It’s only when Vanessa moves Brooke into the kitchen and puts the kettle on, stops to stand with Brooke as the water boils that she runs into some of the other dommes and notices their surprised looks. And that’s when Vanessa realizes that her arms are wrapped around Brooke, comforting her with a tight, protective hug. _

_ “Thank you.” Brooke sniffles, her voice barely above a whisper as she hugs Vanessa back. “I--I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you--” _

_ “You didn’t.” Vanessa shakes her head, squeezes a little harder. “This is my fault, not yours. You ain’t do nothing wrong, okay? I’m so proud of you.” _

_ Another coworker walks by, another weird glance is thrown Vanessa’s way. But she hardly notices, because Brooke is nodding, saying she understands, thanking Vanessa for comforting her again. _

_ Vanessa shushes her, tells her it’s okay, that she doesn’t have to keep thanking her or making excuses. But of course, that’s not the way Brooke works, so she pauses, her heart speeding up against Vanessa’s ear as she presses into Brooke’s chest. _

_ “Should I even be touching you right now?” Brooke frets, and Vanessa laughs. _

_ “It’s okay, sweetheart. It’s okay.” _

_ Brooke settles again, and Vanessa doesn’t let go. _

“You’re sure this’ll work?” Vanessa frowns, chewing her lip as she turns over Yvie’s proposed plan in her head. 

“Worth a shot, right?” Yvie shrugs. “Look, you let me take care of the set-up; it’ll be my argument once she knows I came to see you, and then after that, if everything falls into place, I’ll let you know.”

It’s unnerving, how calm Yvie is--how confident she is that their plan will go well, that the risks they’re about to take will all pay off without any complications. Vanessa almost wishes she could have that level of confidence; Hell, she usually  _ does _ , it’s just...different.

Because Vanessa has all the confidence in the world, but Isabela doesn’t. And Vanessa has nothing to lose, but Isabela?

She’s not sure she can even narrow down just how bad the fallout will be, but she knows for sure that if this plan fails, if she doesn’t get to see Brooke again, get either the closure or the reunion she’s hoping for, that things will never be the same again. 

She has to do it, not just for Brooke, but for herself. She  _ wants _ to do it. But that doesn’t mean she’s not scared shitless of what’ll come if she does. 

** _YVIE O: she says she’ll do it_ **

The text comes in two hours later, after Isabela’s had dinner and wine and enough time to crawl into bed, slip her hands under the covers to calm herself down. So much for that. Still, Isabela waits with bated breath for the next text, the next instruction.

** _VANESSA VANJIE: k so what now_ **

** _YVIE O: so be at her place this Saturday at two o’clock. 1284 34th Street, Penthouse unit. _ **

** _YVIE O: Oh and don’t bother bringing like flowers or whatever--she just wants to talk._ **

Fine by Isabela; that’s all she wants, too.

Well, all she wants at the moment, at least. She’ll figure the rest out later. For now, she just needs to take that first step, the step she’s been itching to take since it seems like forever. The step she’s suddenly terrified to take.

She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, and begins to type.

** _VANESSA VANJIE: alright_ **

** _VANESSA VANJIE: thanks_ **

Yvie doesn’t say anything else, so Isabela turns off her phone, slides it in her coat pocket, and heads out of her apartment, because she needs to get out and clear her mind.

It’s snowing outside, and the air is cold enough to sting as it hits Isabela’s face. But she walks anyway, letting the flakes fall in her eyelashes, soak into her coat, her boots, her hair.

An hour has passed when Isabela boots up her phone again to check the time, but her inbox is still empty. Good. She slides it back in her pocket and keeps walking, letting the snow gather on her shoulders. And when Isabela finally circles back home two hours later, she collapses into bed still drenched and falls asleep.

_ When you live and breathe kink for a living, it’s nice to have a break from it sometimes. For Isabela, those breaks usually look like weeks off spent in pajamas on the couch with Riley and a tub of ice cream, dozing on and off between soap reruns and televangelists that always seem to be on whenever she jerks awake. And usually, it’s more than enough for her--a chance to decompress, be that good girl she’s supposed to be without even trying, because nothing keeps you out of trouble like a heavy dose of sex worker burnout.  _

_ Still, she’s an extrovert at heart, so even on those days, she tries to keep in touch with people. Which sometimes means A’keria and Silky, but also people outside of that main group, people from other corners of her life.  _

** _MOO MOO THE FOOL: u find a bitch on tinder yet or what_ **

_ Isabela rolls her eyes, lets out a groan. Of course that’s what Monique chooses to ask about--she wouldn’t expect anything less, not since she got married to Monet last summer. In a way, it was Isabela they had to thank for their union, since Isabela was the one who introduced Monique to Monet after meeting Monet at her stitch ‘n bitch and realizing she’d be perfect for her friend. But for some reason, Monique had taken it upon herself to thank Isabela by matchmaking, intruding into her life with a Cosmo article on Hinge tips and a rabid desire to see Isabela married with two kids and a white picket fence by the time she was thirty. _

_ If only she knew.  _

** _IZZ: bitch it’s so boring on there, u ain’t even know_ **

** _ MOO MOO THE FOOL: please, I was on it too, not so long ago_ **

** _MOO MOO THE FOOL: i bet uve given up, havent you_ **

_ Well, despite her nickname, Monique is definitely no fool. _

** _IZZ: and if i havent?_ **

** _MOO MOO THE FOOL: Vanj I s2g Imma whoop ur ass_ **

** _MOO MOO THE FOOL: you tried bumble yet either_ **

** _IZZ: no_ **

** _MOO MOO THE FOOL: well do that. Otherwise im just gonna keep bothering you all week long. _ **

_ Isabela sighs, closes her phone and collapses back onto the couch. It’s not that Monique is ill intentioned--her heart is in the right place, Isabela knows that--but it’s exhausting, sometimes. She’s got a book full of people she sees for that kind of stuff every day--why would she want to date on top of all that? Besides, she wasn’t lying when she said it was boring. It’s almost as if no one appeals to her anymore; every woman on every app just doesn’t seem to fit, no matter how pretty or genuine or interesting their profiles make them seem. It all just feels flat and frustrating, because you can only swipe left so many times before you realize that you’re only doing it because your friends want you to. And Lord knows Isabela spends enough time doing exactly what other people want her to.  _

_ Still, there’s not much to watch at this point, and she’s scrolled Twitter to death; so she might as well fill her time with  _ something  _ productive. And who knows, maybe she’ll find someone with good enough jokes on their profile that at the very least, she’ll get a laugh. _

_ She opens Bumble, moves to the profile she hasn’t set up yet and starts to root through her pictures to do just that. Three pictures of herself with Riley, one of her at a family Christmas party, one selfie taken on a day she was just particularly feeling herself. Puts in her Zodiac sign and fills out that she drinks, smokes weed socially, doesn’t smoke cigarettes. Doesn’t do any other drugs. Doesn’t have or want kids. Easy enough questions to answer; anyone could have found that information out within two minutes of conversation with her.  _

_ But then she scrolls to the next question the set up page asks, and her mouth goes dry. _

** _What are you looking for?_ **

_ The options are laid out as if they’re cut and dry, black and white, as easy as picking out what set of plates you want from Ikea. So casual that Isabela almost resents it. What is she even supposed to say? There’s no ‘I’m too tired to date, but my friend is this close to arranging my marriage herself, and I’m bored today so might as well’ option, so what else should she pick?  _

_ She decides on ‘not sure yet,’ because that’s pretty much it, really. Nothing much else to say.  _

_ When Isabela exits the set up, goes on to see her options, it’s pretty much what she thought it would be. A jungle of general selections that have yet to be tamed by an algorithm, all of them eerily similar and yet none that exciting. And Isabela tries, she really tries to be excited. She tries to look at every girl,  _ really _ look at them, read their profiles and pick out the interesting parts. And there are some really objectively interesting girls out there--actresses and nurses and professional dog trainers and grad school students, even an astrophysicist. All of them with wide, dimpled smiles and sparkles in their eyes. Huddled with cats or birds or their grandmothers. Sometimes in bikinis, which Isabela has to admit, is tempting. _

_ Still, though, ten minutes have passed before Isabela realizes she hasn’t swiped right a single time yet, because as cool as they all sounded, as much as she’d like to talk to them, learn more about them, it’s not in the way she’s supposed to. None of them  _ fit _ \--when she looks at them, sure, they seem nice, but there’s no spark, no click, no flame of interest that makes Vanessa’s heart speed up with excitement. Nothing she’s supposed to feel, supposed to want from a significant other. Nothing to tell Monique about, and really, that’s all she’s after. _

_ She exits the app, pauses a moment, then deletes it. _

_ Even two days later, she doesn’t really miss it. _

Saturday comes so fast that it feels like the other days of the week haven’t actually happened at all. Like time has just skipped over to the weekend, to the day Isabela has been both dreading and excited for, hopeful about and afraid of at the same time. She’s thought about today over and over, about how it could go down, the possibilities it could either realize or shatter. What Brooke is going to say, what she’ll do. What kind of state she’ll be in, and what she’ll make of the state that Isabela herself is currently in. Though Isabela supposes she’d have to figure out just what that state is herself first before she can imagine how Brooke will feel about it. 

It’s strange, but as much as she wants time to hurry up, for two o’clock to just come already, she also wants it to stop just as much. Or, not stop, necessarily--just be kinder. To give her more space, let her hide, ruminate, forget everything. Delay shit indefinitely, not because she isn’t looking forward to it, but because she’s not ready, not really. How  _ could _ she be?

Isabela’s about to show up at the door of the woman she loves, who she has no business loving. Who she barely even knows enough to love. And she might get her heart mended, or destroyed even further. There’s just no way of knowing what will happen--so how can she possibly prepare? 

She supposes she can start by getting out of bed. It’s a struggle for more than just her own misgivings--when  _ isn’t _ it, really--but she makes it, stretches out her back, pauses for a moment when her pose breaks. According to the clock, it’s already ten thirty; meaning she has only about three and a half hours before meeting Brooke.

Well, two and three quarters, realistically, if she factors in the commute she’s googled obsessively every day since Yvie had sent her the address. But then again, it  _ is _ the weekend--meaning that the subway may be delayed because of construction, so she should leave early. Or it may also be faster than usual, since there’ll be less foot-traffic; in that case, even if she leaves on time, she might get there too early, anyway. And then there’s the walk from the subway to Brooke’s place. Google had said about ten minutes, pretty direct, but that doesn’t mean Isabella won’t accidentally go the wrong way, not be able to find the building number, run into a closed street and have to take a detour she’ll wind up getting lost on…

She closes her eyes, sucks in a breath and counts to four. Holds for the same, exhales for six. Exactly like Courtney had told her. And when she opens her eyes again, she’s calm, and even though the thoughts haven’t dissipated, they’re quiet. Whispers instead of yells, shadows that chase her mind instead of flashing images that kick their way to its front. 

It’s not the best outcome, but it’s enough. 

She tries her best to get ready quickly after that, rushing through the routine of brushing her teeth and combing her hair and running to get breakfast, although she’s not really sure why--she does have time, after all, even though it feels like both not enough and far too much all once. And it’s not like there’s much to do to get ready, beyond getting dressed and putting make-up on and…

Oh God. She has to get dressed and put make-up on. 

Isabela walks towards her closet with a feeling of dread, the sense of doubt that’s been seeded in her chest bursting open as her mind begins to cloud over with indecision. Any other time, this could almost feel comedic, in an ironic sort of way--scanning over the rows of clothing, cataloguing every choice and weighing her options. It’s almost like she’s seventeen again, fretting over whether her crush will like the blue skirt with the heels or the red shorts with the converse more. Except in a way, it’s more complicated than that, and that’s what raises the stakes and makes it so hard. 

This isn’t just about what Brooke will like her in; it’s also about what Brooke  _ expects _ her in. Who Brooke expects to see. Vanessa’s clothes are kept in a drawer apart from Isabela’s everyday clothing, but for a moment, the thought crosses her mind that maybe, just maybe, she should delve into the black leather, the sleek fishnets, pick a pair of stilettos, because maybe that’s what Brooke wants. Who Brooke has invited, who she expects. Who she’s fallen for. After all, Brooke hasn’t really seen Isabela, doesn’t really know her; even in more business-type meetings, Isabela’s kept Vanessa in her back pocket, wrapped Vanessa around her heart to keep from letting herself leak into her negotiations. If Isabela shows up just looking like Isabela, will Brooke be disappointed? Ask her to leave? Throw Isabela’s heart out with the trash, lock the door behind it? 

Or, even worse, if Isabela shows up at the door alone, keeps Vanessa locked away with her whips and collars and leashes, will she be able to stay present? Will she be able to advocate for herself, tell her side of the story, tell Brooke how she feels and ask for what she needs? Or will she fall back on her sensitivities, on her hurt, let herself falter and fold for the sake of a woman she wants the best for, can’t get out of her head?

Then again, if Brooke really  _ does _ love her, really does want to see her for who she is, would hiding that away ruin her chances of getting answers before she even sits down to ask for them? That’s the thing about Vanessa, as opposed to Isabela--Vanessa doesn’t wait for answers, she gives them. Doesn’t ask questions, only does what she wants. Expects Brooke and anyone else in front of her to shrink back, because who wouldn’t, when she’s staring right at them, forming the perfect insult on her tongue and waiting to shoot it straight through their heart? 

If Vanessa shows up, Brooke might send her walking right back out, because it wouldn’t be the kind of meeting she would want. It would be a scene, nothing more than a scene, and frankly? It’s not just about Brooke when Isabela thinks about that possibility--she doesn’t want it either.

Isabela owes it to herself to get answers; if she gets hurt, let this be the final hurt. If Brooke opens her arms to her, says she’s sorry, offers to help her heal, then she’ll be ready to fall into that embrace. Either way, if it’s not Isabela who talks to Brooke today, she’s cheating herself out of the one thing that could finally help her move on.

She stops suddenly as her eyes fall on a hoodie at the back of her closet, soft and warm and pink and…familiar.

_ There’ll be plenty of time for leather and latex, Mary. _

So that’s where it’s from--the first time she and Brooke had met.

For the first time since waking up that morning, Isabela doesn’t think twice before putting it on.

_ “Okay, truth or dare?” A’keria giggles like a little schoolgirl, and Isabela rolls her eyes. It’s a Saturday night and they’re high as kites, bags of chips and packets of cookies discarded as A’keria lays across Isabela’s chest, eyes fighting to stay open.  _

_ “Truth.” Isabela chooses, and fuck it, she laughs too, because it’s funny, somehow, it really is. Like they’re kids again, twelve-year-olds at a slumber party trying to suss out who has a crush on what person in their class. Hell, knowing A’keria, even in this state, that’s exactly what she’s trying to do--but even sober, Isabela doesn’t mind that. It’s fun.  _

_ “What’s your type, Vanj? I ain’t ever see you date or even hit on someone. You aro-ace or somethin’? If you are, that’s cool, so’s Heidi. It’s tough in our industry, from the way she talks about it, but you don’t gotta hide it from me, promise.”  _

_ “Stop it.” Isabela slaps the top of A’keria’s head, bursts into laughter when the other woman lets out an exaggerated, indignant cry of pretend pain. “No, I’m not ace, I just like my privacy.” _

_ “Like Hell you do, bitch. You text me and Silk every time a shit don’t come out fast enough.” _

_ “Shut up.” Isabela hits A’keria again, laughing even harder when A’keria slaps her back this time. “No, really, I guess it just never came up before. I do got a type, I guess--I like girls tall and blonde. And smart. Funny, too. If they ain’t smart and can’t make me laugh, they boring as Hell.” _

_ “Mm, fair enough.” A’keria nods sagely. “If you gonna buy a Barbie, might as well be the astronaut.” _

_ “You just sayin’ that ‘cause your head in space right now.”  _

_ “Maybe so.” A’keria shrugs, giggling again, “But still. Your astronaut Barbie’s out there, baby. We just gotta find her for you.” _

Isabela’s throat gets tighter and tighter the more floors she passes on the elevator, each number on the screen making her feel smaller and smaller. Claustrophobic. Caught between wishing that everything would slow down, give her more time before having to do what she’s about to do, or speed up, get it over with already. Rip the bandaid off and let her breathe again.

Unfortunately, she doesn’t have much of a choice in that matter, so she closes her eyes, goes through the breathing exercises Courtney emailed to her for this precise purpose. To try and help her calm down.

When the elevator dings, its doors sliding open, she takes one last final deep inhale, then heads straight for the one lonely door on the floor. 

It’s now or never.

She raises her hand to knock on the door, exhaling shakily, but before she can tap its surface, it swings open, making her jump. 

“Hi.” Brooke smiles weakly, “It’s nice to see you.”

“Nice to see you too.” Isabela says, and she’s not lying--the more she looks at Brooke, fixates on those eyes, that smile, that innocent, expectant face, the better she feels. 

_ I missed you.  _ Isabela doesn’t say it; she can’t say it. Not yet. So instead, she shifts on her feet, looks up at Brooke, and asks if she can come in.

“Oh yeah, no, for sure,” Brooke scurries out of the way, gestures for Isabela to come inside. “Please, make yourself at home.”

_ think I still love you. _ Isabela can’t say it; now’s not the time. So instead, she takes another deep breath, smiles, and walks through the door.


End file.
